A Study in Wedlock
by mrs.forsyte
Summary: Man is not supposed to live forever. For the sake of not being forgotten by posterity, Sherlock Holmes embarks on the most bizarre adventure of them all. But the price for immortality is high. Will fate pay or punish his presumption?
1. Chapter 1

**A Study in Wedlock**

"_Great men are horrible._ "

("Under Western Eyes", Joseph Conrad)

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Sir ACD does.**_

**Hi there! Righto, am going to toy with Baker Street universe once more, just in a somewhat unorthodox fashion, if I say so myself. You, however, are very welcome to join me in my commitment, to make suggestions and to exert constructive criticism. **

**This story will contain funny situations and sad ones, trouble and strife, romance and mystery. That much is certain though I'm not quite so sure of where it will finally take us. The prologue is a vague translation of my oneshot fic, "Bonjour Tristesse". It will form an introduction to the tale as well as giving us an idea of the nature and motives of one of our principal characters. **

**Enjoy!**

Prologue

2nd April 1887

"Holmes?"

I entered the crepuscular chamber with timid steps. Somebody had closed the window shutters, and the floor was littered with telegrams and congratulation messages. There were bouquets on every single piece of furniture. In the darkness, I could smell roses, carnations, lilies…Nevertheless, everything appeared to be wasted on the man outstretched on his bed in the corner, his arm covering his eyes against the faint daylight my arrival had caused.

"Holmes?"

No reply. Slowly, I stepped closer to the prone figure on the bed. He was in shirt and gaiters, his grey waistcoat buttoned all awry.

"Holmes, it is I, Watson. How are you faring? My worries would not abate…"

"What do you want", he said, sounding extremely exhausted and irritated at the same time. "You can see I desire to be left alone, can you not? Pray respect my request and vanish."

The chill welcome was no surprise, nonetheless I disrelished the offense it entailed.

"Holmes, this demeanour is unworthy of you. I am here with the sole intention of helping you!"

"And how can you hope to achieve this feat? I am not ill."

"But..I have been informed…"

"See for yourself. Place your hand on my forehead, on my cheeks. Am I feverish? Hardly so. My case drained me and I need to rest, that is all."

"You have driven yourself too hard as per usual, I suppose?" I berated him.

"Your accusation is justified perhaps…it has been hard. My research took up two months, during which I never worked less than fifteen hours a day, and sometimes kept to my task for five days at a stretch."

"My dear friend…!" I cried, horrified by his confession.

"So, can you comprehend I am tired? Return to England. I shall follow when I am better…"

I nodded although he was unable to see me, and was about to withdraw, when suddenly I caught sight of an open drawer close to the bed. I hesitated.

"Did not you plan on leaving, doctor?" the acerbic voice of my boswell asked.

He had done _that _again. Syringe and bottle could be distinguished in between other odds and ends in the open drawer.

"My dear Holmes…"

I wanted to re-approach the bed, but his unoccupied arm fiercely fended me off.

"Can't you hear what I'm saying? Leave! I beg of you! Leave!"

"But…" astounded and upset, I noted his voice had grown choked, unsteady as if…God Almighty.

Never before had I witnessed my friend weeping. All the same, when I gently forced the arm away from his face, tears tumbled down and dripped onto the pillow. I had not even known he was capable of such emotions, and prior to this moment, I had seen his heart on very rare occasions only.

"Why, whatever is wrong? Calm yourself, dear friend. All is well. You have succeeded where the police of three countries have failed, you will be celebrated all over Europe. Just look at all of those telegrams! The people love you!"

"And pray what is it to me if they love me? Perfect strangers for the most part…they applaud whilst I am – solitary!"

"Oh, is it like that? You're feeling solitary? Abandonned? Unloved? I'll tell you something, dear Holmes – " I regarded his glassy eyes fixedly, "maybe that you are not ill, but most certainly you're suffering from bipolar disorder in quite a serious form."

Holmes only snorted. "Bipolar disorder? You let yourself be carried away by your fascination with the Austrian specialists. Today, you find me in a state of weakness…but perhaps tomorrow already I shall be my old self again. I am not some sentimental idiot!"

"Of course not. I am just too well aware of the strict discipline you habitually exercise over yourself. It does not do, however, to constantly suppress your sentiments. It's just as well everything spills out now. You've worked, you have been optimistic and ambitious of achieving a high-stake aim. Now the reaction is upon you. Why are you always endeavouring to lighten your humour with the use of this poison? It is in vain. It would be better for you to talk a little."

"Talk? About what?"

"I don't know, old chap. It is you who knows what is on your mind."

"It is nothing in particular..." Holmes sighed. "In fact, I do not have anything to worry about, and that is what worries me. When I am trying to listen to my interior, there is just a great big void."

"You mean to say...?"

"Ah, I don't know, Watson. These thoughts invade me from time to time. I don't expect you to understand. After all, you are a man quite different from myself…appreciated and not scorned by your peers…you have lots of friends…and a most devoted wife…"

I frowned. "Holmes, you have chosen this lonely path for yourself. You could have married yourself all the time."

He smiled a little. "You're right there, no doubt. But in the end, you know I am not overly fond of women. And still…sometimes, I wished I was in your shoes…and I feel envy."

"I thought you were cherishing your lonesome existence?" I opposed, a little confused.

"Very much", he confirmed. "I need calm and silence in order to establish an atmosphere that allows me to concentrate my thoughts on my scientific problems. And it is true I detest the social gatherings attractive to a man of your kind. In spite of all, Watson – at our age, one cast's one's eyes into the future. I did so and divined…nothing."

"Oh no", I tried to ease him, "there are glories…successes that are sure to come…you still have the whole of your career ahead of you!"

He laughed a mirthless laughter. "And afterwards? And afterwards? Who will continue what I have instigated, who will inherit my talents or are they doomed to perish in the dust of the decades? Yes, if I had children, Watson…if only I had anyone!"

"Your anxieties are superfluous, my dear Holmes. You're young still…you still can have a lot of children if you so choose!"

"No, never!" He forcibly freed his arm from my grip and reinstalled it over his eyes. "I'm incapable of it! I shall never have a son! I shall never have anyone at all!"

His dry sobs penetrated my heart painfully. I made another effort to retract his arm, but without success. For the first time during our acquaintance, Holmes acted irrationally. I was positive he had never wanted a family, at least not for the family's sake. He felt lonely, and miserable, and that was all. Bipolar disorder, it was apparent. Compassionately, I touched his brow with tenderness.

"None of this, Holmes. You're not solitary", I whispered. "You do have a friend who cares for you a great deal…in the end, you always have me."

**Aww, Watson is so nice and reassuring, but even he can't give Holmes a son ready for use. So what will the great detective do to remedy the situation? It's an easy guess. **

**BTW, I forgot to mention the chapter is set in the beginning of the **_**Reigate Squire **_**case, where it is reported that Watson goes to see Holmes slouching about in a hotel in Lyons, seized by depressions.**

**Next chapter, we will encounter a lady every true Holmes fan is familiar with. Hers will be a not altogether unimportant part in the story. But wait and see!**

**All the best, Mrs.F**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter one: The Cock neighs

16th April 1887

London is not the place to be in early spring. Chill and damp. Even though I only had to cross the street, I opened my umbrella, for it was raining cats and dogs. Lovely, really.

By the time I reached the dark green door with the golden letters on it, my shoes and overshoes were soaked, and my hands felt stiff and clammy despite the gloves. Or perhaps because of them (I had knit them myself). Shivering, I thrust open the door of the _Cock and Horse_ Pub, tottering into the welcoming, smoky warmth.

"Bless me soul, it's _you_!"

Ernie McAlester, the landlord, banged two mugs of ale on the counter, for a pair of rather intimidated looking customers. "'aven't seen ya in donkeys, girl! How are ya?"

"Jus' fine, thanks Ern!"

I looked around irresolutely, not wishing to venture further into the taproom, dripping wet as I was.

"Jus' put yer coat an' auntie Ella over there, girl. Want a drink?"

"Yeh, gimme a cow an' calf, Ern."

I disposed of my wet things and approached the bar, giving the fellows hanging around a dirty look, so that they moved over and I could sit on one of the high stools.

"Didn't see ya in a year, I wager. Porkey tells me yer checked in. tells me yer in boom fer good."

"Not fer good, Ernie." I grinned. "Porkey's a feller ter talk. Has spent more time in boom than outta it."

"Yeh, p'raps. Wotcha do, then?"

I gazed down into the mug he had pushed over to me. "It's kind o' a long story."

"Got time. Lots o' it." Ernie was like old candy, sticky and persistent.

I shook my head. "I ain't in the mood fer talking, not about that at least. Thought of jail still gives me a terra."

"Alroigh. Sorry." He was clearly disappointed.

I shrugged my shoulders. "Doesn't matter. How's the fambly, anyways?"

"Fine. Got meself another li'l rascal while ya was away. Me old woman's always good fer a surprise. Casts her young ones like a sow in pig. Seems ter think I'm some bloomin' millionaire."

I couldn't deny myself a mischievous smirk. "Guess it wasn't all 'er doing."

"Ay. P'raps." Ernie appeared to contemplate the matter in an altogether new light. "We faced some nasty trouble tagetha me old girl an' me. Came 'pon hard times, real tough, as yer might say. Business 'as been slack. Kids been down wiv the flu during the winter, and doctor's fees got us into debt. Got outta it though, letting the spare rooms in me flat gave us some extra chink. The eldest is a-learning at boarding school now, an' he hain't given us disappointment yet loike the other li'le devils."

I was mildly impressed. This was quite a long speech by Ernie's standards. Usually, he preferred the part of the listener, which came in the right time to most of the customers who dropped in at night and wanted to dispose of their exploits.

"Tha's nice. Good fer the chavy."

"It better 'ad pay, fer all the trouble it gave us. Anyhow…How's loife treated yer since yer release? Where d'ye live now?"

I smiled. "Got me old flat, right 'cross the street. Took some time ter get it back, but the missus likes me. Arranged it fer me."

"Oi!Gotta piece o' luck there."

"Sure do. But bees are running out. Got no bees."

McAlester acknowledged it with a nod. "Pity, that. But yer could get into work again. Yer so pretty….look at ya! Wot a barnet! Any feller wiv eyes in 'is 'ead an' a brush in 'is 'and would kill 'imself ter paint ya!"

I bit my lip.

"Ay. P'raps."

I was spared any further discussion of a topic I sought to avoid like a mortal pestilence when suddenly the door to the pub was flung open once more. Ernie looked up passably interested, as he had little patronage in the early afternoon, but it was just the boy from the telegraph office at the corner.

"Wotcher looking fer, kid…?"

Somehow I knew he came for me, ever before his little eyes, resembling black buttons, found me at the bar. No doubt he had enquired after me at my landlady's.

"It's for you, Miss."

"Why, thank you." I scrawled my signature on a piece of paper and gave the runner some change. Disappointed, but still polite, he mumbled his thanks and vanished. Ernie leaned over the counter inquisitively. I seated myself so that he couldn't spy, whereupon he withdrew sulkily, busying himself with the cleaning of some ale glasses. Opening the telegram, I instantly recognized the curt, imperative style.

_Got urgent request to make. Usual place. Come at once._

Only one person in my whole acquaintance could have sent this message, and the despatcher confirmed my suspicion. I stuffed the paper into my blouse.

"I gotta leave, Ern."

"Awready?" He raised his eyes, slightly displeased, but when I got up and went to fetch my things, he hurriedly called: "That'd be sixpence fer the drink, then!"

I spun around furiously. "Ernie I told ya I was broke!"

"What d'ye think I am, eh? An' then, ya ain't re'elly. You gave the runner boy some bees. I seen it."

"It was only change, besides, I'll need the whole lot. How can a feller call 'imself a mate an' then be so goddamn close-fisted? Le' me put it on the bill, at least!"

He firmly shook his head. "Nothin' doin', ya owes me a bag awready. Gotta pay me in bangers, girl."

"Go to hell!" I angrily threw some coins on the bar, but he merely laughed.

"Where d'ya go?"

"Got a meeting. No goddamn business o' yers", I snapped.

"Do I see ya in the evening? Come over an' 'ave a bowler wiv me. It's been so long, an' the pub's not crowded during the week. Porkey'll be in, too."

"Nah", I returned crossly. "'ave to keep me 'pointment an' then 'ead 'ome an' sleep. I'm crackered."

I pulled over my wet coat, which felt like a heavy, slimy second skin, and unfolded my dripping umbrella.

"See ya baked!" McAlester waved his short, fat hand at me, but I didn't care to grace him with an answer. Bumping open the green door, I tripped out into the pouring rain again, fumbling with my old, decrepit umbrella. Some of the links had snapped, I suppose. Well, I had no time to worry about that, for the "usual place" was at a bridge over the Serpentine in Hyde Park, with half the City in between, as I found myself in Sevendials. And I had no money left for a cab.

Marching the sidewalk with a rather grim expression, I wondered what "urgent request" he might have to make. Most likely some weird, fantastic scheme. Still, I knew I was in his debt, or "owed him a bag", as Ernie McAlester would have termed it. So, if I didn't always comply with his outlandish ideas, the least he deserved was that I came to hear him without delay. My fumbling hands somehow had effected a miracle, for all of a sudden, the dilapidated parapluie burst open, almost exactly the same moment that it ceased to rain and the clouds were parted by the mellow, benign sun of springtime. In resignation, I planted the wretched thing into a flower pot in front of a shop, negotiating the enraged cry the shop owner sent after me.

The weather in this City is crazy, no doubt about that. The only thing crazier probably was the unique representative of mankind I hurried to meet. Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Kitty Winter, and I detest two things: Financial slackness – and rain.

oooOOOooo

_Flashback…_

_It was late, and Simpson's in The Strand was about to close, but two guests were still there, occupying a small table in the rear, where the wall was covered with a large reflective surface. Two glasses of wine gleamed on the white pristine tablecloth between the men. Dr. Watson was issuing thick plumes of cigar smoke as he discussed their latest antagonist with his friend Sherlock Holmes, and the young lady who was determined on becoming his next victim._

"_Miss Winter's scars could not move Miss Merville?"_

"_She was shocked, but recovered instantly."_

_The doctor slightly shook his head in disbelief. "Seems inhuman."_

"_I confess a part of me would wish her joy with Gruner", Holmes returned in a cold, but even tone._

"_Abandon her to her fate?" his friend breathed with dismay. "After all this?"_

"_When I compare Miss Merville to Kitty, whose spirit is as sound as her body is blemished, yes."_

"_You wouldn't withdraw off the case!"_

_Sherlock Holmes' eyebrows twitched. "I fear, Watson, my disgust with Miss Merville counts as nothing against my determination to ruin Gruner. But one thing irks me…" he frowned. "That I haven't paid more attention to Kitty's deportment when we first met. The manner in which she dressed her hair…" He implied the fashion with a gesture of his hand, brushing it over the skin to the side of his neck._

_The waiter stepped to the table and handed the ruminative man the bill. _

"_Ah! It is late!" Holmes turned to the waiter, signing the bill with a swift flourish. "We must begone."_

**So here she is, the mysterious woman with the bad accent. Kitty's from **_**the illustrious client**_** in case you don't remember. Please mark I am a fervid adherent of the Granada series, so my characters will be as much influenced by it as they are by canon. The dialogue in the flashback, for instance, is adopted from the episode word by word.**

**One important difference is that in the series, Kitty has been disfigured by oil of vitriol herself, which I personally think is a sufficient motive for paying Baron Gruner in his own coin. Without that, I would consider her rash and cruel.**

**Next chapter, our protagonists will meet. Can you divine what's going to happen?**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two: A question of genetic compatibility

16th April 1887

"Thank you for coming, Kitty."

He motioned me to sit on the bench by the stream of the Serpentine. The clouds had finally drifted apart and the rays of the sun had gained more power. Complying with his bidding, I lowered myself onto the seat and exposed my face to the warm beams, while he remained standing, uncomfortably scrabbling in the gravel of the path with his cane.

"'pon my word, I couldn't resist yer jolly note. _Have urgent request to make to you. Usual place. Come at once. Holmes_", I laughed merrily.

"Hopefully it didn't cause you an inconvenience?" he enquired politely, but I sensed he was not genuinely interested in the answer.

"'course not. Since I've been out o' work, I've had a lot of spare time to fill", I replied, feeling a shadow pass over my face. "But I would 'ave believed you were in France. Your case has caused quite a furore."

"I have been back for some time now. Watson and I spent a couple of days in Surrey, with a former army comrade of the doctor's." He pierced some dry leaves with the tip of his stick, slightly shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

"Hear, hear! Would that 'ave been in Reigate, by any chance?" I smiled, cocking my head.

His face also relaxed into a smile for a second or so. "Yes, it was I who had those men arrested. You are keeping up with continental _and_ homebred crime, then? This is very much deserving of praise."

"One must be on one's guard."

We were silent for a moment, until I remembered why I had come.

"Well?" I teased. "What is your curious request? Can it live up to my imaginative expectations?"

"You would expect no less of me", he uttered randomly, glancing beyond the place where I was sitting on the bench, and over the water of the stream.

"I hear you are twenty-five now, Kitty. Would the prospect of marrying anytime soon be agreeable to you?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "What d'ya think? Who would even taike _me_? My looks are not altogether gone, but…"

"I would", he interrupted me short-clipped.

"I – beg your pardon?" Much as I had expected him to surprise me, he had apparently surpassed himself this time. "Nah, don't tell porkies, Mr. 'olmes! Why would you ever do that? You despise this whole marrying business!"

He gently inclined his head. "I do."

"And you 'ave no feelings fer me that would go beyond friendship."

"None."

"As you do for no woman, for that matter."

"Quite so. I must ask you not to make a mistake there. The wife I choose must fully understand I desire her to keep her emotions at bay, as will I. I shall not suffer being pestered with sentimentality of any kind. There won't be any contact apart from what is absolutely inevitable, and above all, I totally refuse to be disturbed in my work."

"Then I fail to comprehend you. You do not tend to making jokes, otherwise I would be inclined to believe…"

"I am serious, Kitty Winter. Would it be acceptable for you to become my wife?"

My jaw dropped. "Why, Mr. 'olmes? If yer not seeking love an' affection, what could be the object in such a union? Why would you…" I trailed off as I watched him blankly. He sighed and finally fixed his gaze on my face again.

"It is easy, Kitty. No, please retain your seat. You see – I am in need of a wife. Not that I enthuse in the prospect of having a female constantly fussing around me, rest assured. Still, without a wife, there will hardly ever be a child. Do I make my point sufficiently clear to you?"

„Rather", I returned snappishly. I was utterly unable to see how his sudden craving for an offspring came to be. He was not particularly fond of children, and would get in contact only with those who attempted robbery in the streets, leaving the others in peace. I had noticed he had quite a nice way with the Baker Street boys, though.

"So, what you envisage is more in the nature o' a bargain." I folded my arms in front of my chest rigidly.

"Indeed. Forgive me if I insulted your virtuous sentiments" he said with an unmistakable air of irony.

"Not at all." I tried to appear as cool as a cucumber, although I fumed internally. What he had proposed recalled to me the comparison between his wife and a sow in pig Ernie McAlester had made earlier. "Only there is no need for that, as I'm sure you know, Mr. 'olmes. I'm convinced ya'll find women aplenty that even without offer of marriage are fully prepared to…"

"My child would be respectable." His words came very staccato and very determined.

"Naturally." His irreproachability and that of everyone affiliated to him was beginning to slightly unnerve me. "Let us call it a bargain all the same, fer the sake o' convenience. Pray, what would be in such a bargain fer me?"

He smiled faintly. "I could not even give you a reason why you should consent. Living with me is certainly not all sugar and honey, or at least that is what Watson used to say. And I suppose I am a difficult companion, for a wife no less." He lowered his gaze and continued drawing little sketches on the ground with his cane.

"Presumably, I turned to you as the logical result of my deliberations. It is, in essence, a question of genetic compatibility. Your genes are admirably suited to mine, if I may say so. You are resolved, shrewd and courageous. All these are qualities which favour the desired outcome."

It began to dawn upon me. "You mean to say…you wish to purposely design a successor of sorts, Mr. 'olmes? An heir to yer legacy?"

"Do not misinterpret my scheme. I do not intend to trim nature's course. All I long for is a son – or a child, for that matter – to carry on with what I have instigated. And I am convinced you will do very well for a mother, furthermore each other's company is not disagreeable to us, which will somewhat lighten the trial of matrimony for both of us. Not to mention, I presumed that in your current situation, you would consider marriage an advantageous option."

I glared at him. He had never bothered to consider other people's feelings. Certainly not mine.

"I thank you very much for your openness. You are accurate in every point of yer argument, Mr. 'olmes, plus you know I am the rare kind of woman within your range o' acquaintances that 'as learned ter swallow 'er pride. You know I cannot go on working to support myself since the vitriol incident. You know women of my standing will make unpopular choices in order to survive. You are perfectly right, it is to me best advantage. What are me perspectives? I can never 'ope ter marry a respectable man, since I can offer neither riches nor untarnished virtue, and the scars disfiguring my body do not help in the least", I spat bitterly.

He frowned and shoved me back on the bench, from whence I had risen during my irate speech.

"Please don't be childish Kitty, you know better than that. I would never be able - or willing - to force you into anything that is repellent to you. I am simply offering you are future and I ask for nothing but your fertility in return."

I still fumed at the way he was referring to me, as if I was a piece of cattle. Mr. Holmes was my friend, certainly, but I had not yet grown accustomed to his annoying outspokenness, and doubted that I ever would. All the same, he _did _have a point. Where would I ever find a husband who would not complain of my blemishes and my comparative poverty, and who would not ask questions about my past?

Not that there was an awful lot left to ask. The media had done a good deal of work in that respect, they had reported every juicy detail about Baron Gruner and me, including the suspiciously mild punishment I had received for attacking him. The latter had been partly courtesy of the mysterious illustrious client that had pulled strings and supplied me with a good advocate, and partly of Mr. Holmes, who had quite eloquently spoken on my behalf in court.

Perhaps it had been at this point that our relationship started to develop into amity. Nothing much of an amity, really, nothing very intimate. Out of work, I had been at my leisure to snoop around a little with my chum Porkey, and now and then we had dropped by in Baker Street to report our news together.

Eventually, I had come to see more of , we would have tea or go for a walk occasionally. I could tell he was attracted to the kind of life I led, carefree, without social pretenses or a concrete plan, just thoughtlessly from day to day. And now that my savings were running out and this lifestyle was growing financially impossible, he was holding out his hand to me.

I did not love him, naturally, but I liked him well enough. And he was not rich, but rich enough. Both our needs were simple. In fact, I would have hesitated longer to accept the hand of a nobleman who kept a grand household and a vast circle of friends, but Mr. Holmes' way of life was not intimidating to me. And yet, he was able to introduce me into good society. At last, I would _be _someone…

My reverie was rashly interrupted by his sharp voice. "It is understood, Kitty – I will have you move in with me and we'll do our best to keep up appearances. We will be taking our meals together and make each other little presents and show on public occasions… Mrs. Hudson would not tolerate us under her roof if she suspected the true nature of our relations, and I'm afraid even Watson might disapprove. Therefore you will be allowed to tell nobody save your closest and most trusted friends.

And you will inhabit your room – Watson's old room, that is – and will be confined to it. You will never enter my rooms without my express invitation, _compris_?"

"Quite, Mr. 'olmes. But I 'ave not as yet agreed to your proposal."

"You decline?" He was mildly surprised.

"Not exactly, no. I…um…"

"Ah!" His face lit up. "Of course. You would like some little time to think it over, would you not? Women are very fond of thinking matters over, I observe."

I nervously fiddled with the hair tresses that covered the scars on my neck.

"No, no, Mr. 'olmes. I was bound to say – I shall accept. We will cope, I reckon. Anything would be better than the mess I'm in…"I added, nearly inaudibly.

"Splendid." He took my gloved hand and shook it good-bye. "I'll see you in church, then. Eleven O'clock tomorrow, pray keep that in mind." He sounded as if we were arranging an appointment for tea instead of imposing the most intimate ties on each other. "St. Martin's In The Field will serve, I think. If you stay away, I shall know you have changed your mind. Now I must be on my way. A wicked little puzzle awaits me…" Swinging his cane, he hustled away underneath the birches growing by the waterside.

**Whoa, this must have been about the most unromantic proposal I've ever heard of. But they both are rational thinkers, one by inclination, the other by force of circumstance. Presumably they really believe this arrangement will work for them. I doubt it…**

**A propos, I hope my imitation of the Cockney accent is sufficient. I did some research on the dialect, but some Americanisms might have found their way in. Sounds a little The-Grapes-of-Wrath-y to me, honestly. Well, when with Holmes, Kitty will try to avoid slang, anyways.**

**Hopefully you enjoy it so far. See ya baked! Love, Mrs.F**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter three: Wouldn't it be loverly?

17th April 1887

It was twenty minutes to eleven when I alighted from the underground at Charing Cross Station, so there was still time. Slowly I stepped up to the street level and crossed the road. St. Martin's pointed tower and its white columns hailed me from afar. I inhaled deeply. Perhaps I should consider backing off before it was too late. I had not yet told anybody. It was not too bad to be busted, most of my friends were, and none of them had any social distinctions.

But no. I wanted something more out of life. Perhaps that was why I had liked to keep in touch with the bohémiens, artists and elegant idlers of the City, rather than with my childhood friends, the Street Arabs of Limehouse. My mate, the Italian painter Lorenzo Burini, used to say I had in myself the makings of a lady. Maybe it was time for me to put these makings to the test. At least, I wouldn't have to stand in the gutter and wait for it to rob me of what looks and spirits I had left.

Closing my fists with determination, I took the steps up to the Church door. I was wearing my best dress – out of three I owned. I had used to have more when times had been better, but most of them had gone to the pawnbroker's, among other things. Probably I was rather a threadbare bride. Entering the Church on the tips of my toes, I found it almost empty.

There was nobody except for the deacon who exchanged the candles in the holders along the wall. Hesitantly, I put one foot before the other. My steps sounded unnaturally loud to me as I went down the aisle, and I imagined the deacon was staring at my back derisively. The white columns separating the rows of benches from one another gave an impression of forlorn grandeur, as did the two lines of chandeliers above my head.

Deceived and disappointed, I stopped in front of the altar. He had not come, then. In between all these thoughts of changing my mind, it had not once occurred to me this was exactly what he might do. I shivered slightly, feeling foolish and abandoned. Another dream had crumbled. Instead of being respected and taken care of, I would continue my life just as it had been before, making my rounds from the _Cock&Horse_ pub to Porkey's place to the pawnbroker and back again. Nothing would ever change for me. It had just been a dream.

I had just finished this last gloomy thought, when all of a sudden, the Church door burst open and a top-hatted gentleman came marching in resolutely, dragging an unsightly, freckled youth with him.

"Ah! Very sorry to make you wait, Kitty!" he yelled, his voice echoing from the walls, leaving me in a daze. "But I had neglected to think of a legal witness to the ceremony. Deacon! Now that I'm here, you may tell the Honourable Reverend that we can begin. Wiggins!" he instructed the shabby young man, "stand over there, will you? Hold the rings, please."

He handed him a little black, shiny box. Having given all of his directions, he abruptly turned around to me, with a smile that survived only the quarter of a second. I blinked insecurely and tried to return it.

"I say! We have a witness!" The minister emerged from the vestry with a bible in his hands. "Very well, we may now take the vows."

Stepping in front of Mr. Holmes and me, he proceeded: "Dearly beloved, we have come together in the presence of God to witness the joining together of this man and this woman in holy matrimony. The bond and covenant of marriage…"

I stood motionless during the minister's speech and paid it little notice until he addressed me: "Bride, will you have this man to be your husband, to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and keep him, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?"

"I will."

The minister turned to Mr. Holmes.

"Groom, will you have this woman to be your wife, to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?"

From the corner of my eye, I saw his mouth twitch ironically as the question of love arose, nonetheless replying: "I will."

"Then I declare you in the name of God to be husband and wife."

Wiggins stepped forward, and the exchange of the rings took place. They were plain gold bands with our names engraved in it – that is to say, his name in his and my name in mine.

"Amen", Mr. Holmes brought the ceremony to an end hurriedly. "Wonderful, Reverend, thank you ever so much. But now I must be gone. Dear Kitty, I shall expect you today or anytime in the course of the week that suits you best. Wiggins here will be kind enough to help you move your belongings."

The hideous youngster by his side grinned, disclosing two lines of horribly crooked teeth.

"Um, that is all very well, but – "

"Save it for next time, my dear. Now – if you will excuse me…"

And then he was gone, leaving me with the grinning youth and the minister who seemed to be as baffled as myself.

oooOOOooo

Now the deed was done. Little Kitty Winter had become Mrs. Catherine Holmes. It was strange to think about it.

I had Wiggins come to my place around five o'clock in order to pack my stuff. The flat was not that bad, but the chimney was full of soot and I certainly was not keen on dying in my wedding night, be it from chocking or freezing. Once I had broken the news to my friends, it would be better to be in Baker Street, anyway, as I had no mind of telling them the truth. The secret I kept was not actually a nice one, not even amongst people of my pedigree.

It was beginning to darken in the street when I stepped outside, but the varnished sign with the crowing cock and the neighing horse could be seen from across the road. I knew Porkey would be in. He always was at this hour. Listlessly I pushed open the door.

"Eh! Look who's 'ere!"

The men by the counter hooted and jeered as I approached.

"How's it going, Kitty?" Porkey, chubby-cheeked and shabby as ever, vacated a bar stool for me.

"Oi, Kitty! Come an' meet Al Whittaker," Ernie exclaimed.

I let my eyes run over the middle-aged man who was leaning against the counter, a glass of gin in his hand.

"Kit, tha's Mr. Whittaker. He's ta'en a room upstairs in me flat – came straight from Oklahoma fer business. Canned beef is 'is trade, ain't it, Whittaker?"

"It is alright", the man confirmed, reaching for my hand. "How d'ye do."

"How d'ya do. I'm Kitty. Kitty – "I fell silent, very nearly having given a name that was no longer mine. It was definitely time for my news.

"Listen, fellers", I said determinedly. "I 'ave something important ter say t'ya."

They stared at me, mouths gaping wide open in surprise. Seriousness or staginess was not the custom in our commonplace conversations.

"Hear, hear!" Mr. Whittaker finally said. "She got somepin ter say! Let her speak, then, I'm purty curious!"

My look darted from Porkey to Ernie and back to Porkey. "I married. Terday."

"Eh?" Ernie said, and "Holy mother of Gawd!" said Al Whittaker. Porkey remained silent, though he certainly looked the most surprised of them all. I bit my lip.

"Who's yer boiler, then?" Ernie finally asked.

"'is name would be nothing t'ya, Ern." I avoided Porkey's gaze. "It's Sherlock 'olmes. 'e lives up in Mar'lebone, an' – an' so will I."

There was another few seconds of silence, until Ernie McAlester broke into a hoarse, gleeful crow. "Ah'll be damned! Our girl got cashed! An' a gen'leman, too!"

"Congratulations, ma'am!" Mr. Whittaker cried. "Let's have a rounda gin, I'll pay the lot!"

We downed our drinks with many more cheerful hoorays by Ernie, who innocently enjoyed my social advancement, thereby gaining a fluid creditor. But a little later, when his wife came in from behind the bar and the couple had a discussion on something or other, Porkey stepped aside, and taking the hint, I followed him.

"Porkey…is ever'thing alroigh? Hope I di'n't give ya insult by not telling sooner."

He gazed at me earnestly, finally shaking his head. "Kitty, girl…what's wrong wiv yer loaf? One day ya tells me ya ain't going ter be wiv a man ever again, the next day yer tells me yer cashed! Yer not even in love wiv Mr. 'olmes, are ya?"

"Well, ya got yer brass wrong there", I snapped, but repented it as soon as I saw his face. "Look, Porkey…I jus' wouldn't 'ave thought…ya knows…a gen'leman like Mr. 'olmes would taike any interest in me. Tha's why I never talked 'bout me feelings….di'n't want ter make a fool o' me!"

He watched me closely, and once again, I understood I couldn't make a fool of Porkey neither, he looked right through me as usual.

"It's 'is chink yer after, right? 'e sure is 'igh class an' all that, but ya knows Kit…."

"Hold yer box!" I groused. "What d'ya think? Whatever would Mr. 'olmes marry me fer if I di'n't love 'im?"

He hesitated. "Well…well, ya sees Kit, there is some reason or other why a man would like ter taike a pretty girl fifteen years younger than 'imself…"

"Porkey!" I pushed my index into his ribcage warningly. "Ya knows Mr. 'olmes very well. Ya knows 'e is not that sort!"

Porkey squirmed. "We men are all that sort, girl. Can't help it. It's our nature."

I coloured deeply as anger surged through me. What did Porkey take me for? I was not as base as that! I was not a harlot!

"Hold yer bleedin' box!" I cried furiously. "Shut it or I'll kick yer up the bottle!"

Porkey winced. He knew me and he knew I was as good as my word.

"Sorry, I di'n't mean that. 'e is a gen'leman, tha's fer sure. Only… please don't be mad, but it's so strange – so sudden!"

He stepped up to me and grasped my hands, peering down at me earnestly. "Jus' concerned for ya, tha' s all. Remember…it's mean ter say it now, I know…but when ya started wiv the baron, it was I who told ya no good would come of it."

Against my will, my heart softened and my rage wore off. "Oh, Porkey", I whispered, pressing his hands. "Ya can't compare that. Mr. 'olmes is not Baron Gruner." I gazed up at him pleadingly. "Tell me ya gives me yer blessings! Please, it would mean so much ter me!"

"Sure do, girl. Ya knows old Porkey likes yer lots. An' Mr. 'olmes, who's always been decent wiv me. I'm sure he'll treat ya decently, too. An' if not…." A mischievous grin flickered over his ruddy face, "ya can tell 'im I'll break 'is chalk."

**Okay…Mr. Holmes, beware! **

**I take it the wedding would not have been to the taste of most girls, but then again, how is he supposed to spare any time for something so unimportant in between cases? I suppose in the meantime, he had a chained-up villain waiting somewhere, a chemical test tube on the Bunsen burner and perhaps some bomb ticking away time. Poor Kitty! Her future's all topsy-turvy I'm afraid!**

**Thanks for reviewing! ;-)**

**Cockney: boiler – spouse**

**Chalk – arm**

**Chink - money**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter four: Welcome home

17th April 1887

It was a quarter to seven and all dark in the road when Wiggins and I arrived at 221b. I wanted to ring, but the lad just pushed open the door and went in as if he were at home here. I followed hesitantly. Technically, I was at home, and yet I found it discourteous to intrude unannounced. Ginger Jack, my tomcat, stirred uneasily in his basket.

"…spending the evening with Watson!" Mr. Holmes' voice suddenly rang out from the upper landing, and at the same moment, the man himself became visible. Turning his back on us, he called up to the second floor: "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson! You needn't wait up for me. We shall have dinner at…"

He fell silent abruptly, catching sight of us as we stood down in the hall. He tilted his head upwards again, screeching: "Mrs. Hudson!", then he swiftly descended the steps.

"So you decided to come at once?" he observed, taking his hat, scarf and gloves from the wardrobe. "Just as well. Wiggins, you may take her things upstairs, you know your way. I am going out now. Ah, Mrs. Hudson!"

The old lady had appeared on the first landing, and Mr. Holmes negligently motioned towards me, as if I was a piece of furniture he desired to have out of the way.

"Adieu!"

In passing me, he stopped once more, peering down into the basket I was holding in my arms.

"A cat", he remarked levelly. "Achoo!" and sneezing violently, he wrapped his scarf two times around the lower part of his face and left the house in a hurry.

In consternation, I looked down at Ginger Jack. Oh dear. I would not part with Ginger Jack.

"My dear, lovely lady!" Mrs. Hudson scuttled down the stairs, beaming at me broadly. "How wonderful to have you here!"

I believe she would have liked to kiss me, but reigned herself in for the sake of decorum. "Welcome home, madam!"

I awkwardly manoeuvred with the basket in order to take her hand, until Wiggins liberated me of it. We shook hands cordially. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I trust we will become good pals, we 'ave known each other for a while now."

I had never noticed if Mrs. Hudson entertained a marked affection for me, but now her eyes were glistening with tears, as if I had prevented Mr. Holmes from jumping from a bridge, much rather than marrying him. It made me uneasy and self-conscious to receive pleasantness I knew I had done nothing to deserve.

"Indeed we have, madam. But you must not stand in the drafty hallway. Wiggins, didn't you hear what Mr. Holmes said? Take up these boxes, and light a fire in Mrs. Holmes' room. Come, my dear."

She lifted the basket Wiggins had placed on the floor, but Ginger Jack hopped out of it indignantly, not at all amused to find himself in a foreign environment.

"What a very beautiful animal. I regret now we never had a cat. I used to keep a dog, until Mr. Holmes tested some pills on him and he was poisoned. Oh, he was dying anyway", she declared good-humouredly. All the same I picked up Ginger Jack and pressed him to my bosom protectively, just to anticipate any misconceiving.

We went up to the room on the second floor, the one that had once been Watson's. It was smaller than the drawing room downstairs, but it had a good seize and a half-crescent dormer window, from whence I could look down into Baker Street if I rose to the tips of my feet. The furniture stood about a little haphazardly, as if Watson had always left it like he first found it, not seeing any need to make a change in that characteristically male narrow-mindedness.

Wiggins was kneeling by the fireplace, about to light it as he had been told to do. It drew well, and did not soot one bit. At least the place was not drafty.

"Well, I hope you will be comfortable, madam. Of course the tapestry needs replacement, but you know, Mr. Holmes told me only today, in this offhand manner of his. I must ask you to prepare Watson's old room, Mrs. Hudson, he said, I'm expecting a young lady to join forces with me soon. You could have knocked me down with a feather!"

Smiling and shaking her head, she went on, talked about how surprised she had been, how she had always been convinced Mr. Holmes did not care for women and what a lucky occurrence it was I came along and stole his heart away, and so on. In a way I was touched by the moved old lady who clearly was very fond of her lodger, but on the other hand, I was too conscious of the mundane truth and felt terribly out of place. I wished for her and Wiggins to be gone, but it took me another half hour to persuade them I required no further assistance.

When finally they left, I dropped onto the freshly made up bed and sighed. Alone at last. Now I was at my leisure to examine the room and make little changes. The desk I moved over in front of the window, the rocking chair on the carpet by the fire and the bed beneath the pitch of the roof. I also had to figure out how to turn up the gas lamp on my bedside table, for the fire did not procure enough light to illuminate the shady nook. Now, that was better. Some flowers were missing, but I would see to that in the morning.

Kneeling down and removing the string from my boxes, I unpacked my scanty possessions. It came down to some clothes, a carton of old sketches and photographs, and a bottle of old wine which Porkey had given me on the day of my release, and which I placed in a well calculated distance from the fire. Books, jewelry or other luxuries I possessed none.

I found an oil sketch by some anonymous painter, a friend of my mother's, that I fixed to the wall above the mantelpiece, and afterwards I found I could be satisfied. Ginger Jack jumped on my bed and worked his paws into the cushion with a low purr.

"It's alroigh, Jack", I muttered, sitting down and running my hand through his rust-coloured fur. "We're still jus' about the same."

oooOOOooo

The grandfather clock's arms approached ten when Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson rose from the table and went over to the sitting room. Mrs. Watson had already said goodnight and Watson himself was growing rather drowsy, the kind of weariness that ensues a long day of work invaded him. But for the sake of Holmes, whom he would see only seldom these days, he had determined on a glass of sherry and another cigar. The men settled down close to the fire, silently enjoying each other's company like only very good friends can. It was only after a while that Holmes commenced to speak.

"I perceive, doctor, that the effects my constant presence used to have on you are wearing off with an appalling speed."

"How do you mean?" Watson enquired, snuggling deeper into his seat.

"I was referring to the training in observation and deduction to which you have submitted yourself, I'm afraid you have altogether lost the habit of employing these powers."

His friend closed one eye and let the other one run over him sleepily. "I can detect absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in your appearance, dear fellow."

Holmes chuckled softly. "Never mind."

There was another pause. Only the cracking of the wood, burning low in the fireplace, was to be heard.

"Maybe I should be more outspoken", Holmes suddenly said.

"Oh, certainly not, old man", the doctor yawned.

"Yes, I definitely should. I will now ask you something I have asked you before, a long time ago: You would not consider me a marrying man, would you?"

Watson opened both his eyes within one heartbeat. Not trusting his senses, he beheld his friend, who smilingly had raised his right hand. The ring on the forth finger sparkled distinctively in the light of the dying fire.

"Holmes!" Watson cried, not sleepy anymore. He jumped to his feet. "This time you have gone too far!"

The sitting man raised both his hands conciliatorily. "You're alleging I have dishonest motives, which certainly is not the case, dear Watson. I assure you my intentions this time are absolutely upright."

"But – but – "Watson stammered. Only once had his face been so perfectly drained of colour, and that had been when his friend, believed to be dead, had sprung to life before his eyes. "I don't understand…"

"Pray calm yourself, my dear fellow." Sherlock Holmes rose and gently forced Watson back into his seat. Striding over to the table with the beverages and pouring out another glass for the doctor, he elaborated: "Once more, I must ask your forgiveness for my unnecessarily dramatic conduct. I waited the entire evening for you or Mrs. Watson to observe the wedding band, and by all means I wanted to impart my news before I left."

"Of course", Dr. Watson mumbled, reaching for the glass and emptying it in one draught. "Yes, that's quite comprehen – but who is she, Holmes? Do I know her at all?"

"Miss Kitty Winter", his companion replied evenly. "I wed her at St. Martin's today."

"My dear Holmes, I congratulate you! You never mentioned the two of you were engaged?"

"I would have liked to let you know, but I must say I had underestimated the speed with which one marries nowadays."

The doctor frowned. "I hope there was no particular reason for this haste, my dear boy?" he drawled.

Mr. Holmes smiled frostily. "I assure you I have no idea what you are driving at. Fact is, Mrs. Holmes found herself in distressing – financially distressing circumstances, and I was most anxious to have her move to Baker Street as soon as possible."

"Quite so, quite so", Watson murmured distractedly. "Naturally I could see you liked each other, but I never would have thought…_never_…."

"Well, you know now. A thousand apologies for your and Mrs. Watson's not standing witness in church, but like I said, it was rather a short-notice business. Kitty might have grown ill in that rat-trap of hers."

"Kitty…" Watson smiled indulgently at the intimate sound of that word. "I grant you she is a most beautiful, most remarkable woman….with a terrible temperament, of course…though I'm sure you'll be more than a match for her!"

The lips of his comrade curled slightly. "Thank you for your good opinion, Watson. I hope I will. Shall we have another drink before I get on my way?"

"By all means", Watson assented. He filled the glasses to the brim, returning one to Mr. Holmes and raising the other solemnly. "To Mrs. Kitty Holmes! And to a most happy marriage!"

It was not Watson's first drink this evening, and he was also drunk with bliss and confusion. Thus, it probably was not a miracle he failed to observe his friend's glance, which wavered and finally was averted when he joined his friend in raising glasses to Kitty's health.

**Hum! In doubt already? I trust it would be more for Kitty to feel that way….**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Thank you for the flowers

17th April 1887

I had no desire to go to sleep early, for I was not tired, and did some stitching work by the fire. Around half past ten or so, I was beginning to grow thirsty. Probably Mrs. Hudson had already retired, but I knew the situation of the kitchen from earlier visits. On the tip of my toes I went down to the first landing, hoping not to rouse the old lady. There was a slight creaking sound and I glanced back nervously. Had I shut my door properly? If Ginger Jack escaped, he would probably wake the entire house. No, it seemed shut alright. With some relief, I turned back, closely avoiding bumping into Mr. Holmes.

"Oh!" I pressed one hand to my mouth to stifle my cry of surprise, but he just talked in his customary volume, not aware or simply not caring about waking Mrs. Hudson.

"Ah, it's you. I hope everything has been arranged to your satisfaction? Do you require anything?"

"No, thank you", I replied awkwardly. "I was jus' about ter go down the apples fer a li'le bi' o' wa'er."

He made no comment, just looking down at me strangely from his superior height. I quickly sidestepped his glance by staring at the floor foolishly. "Did you 'ave an enjoyable evening?"

"Yes, indeed I did. Thank you", he returned brusquely. My eyes still averted, I felt warmth rise in my cheeks, while my hands got moist and clammy, cramping into the fabric of my skirts. The darkness, the other occupants of the house fast asleep, the proximity of my bedroom door, all this was almost painfully conscious to me. On the other hand, this was why I was here, wasn't it? I forced myself to raise my eyes and bravely meet his, but he winced almost instantly.

"Good night", he said in a nearly harsh tone and without another glance disappeared into his own room, closing the door behind him with a precise thud. I closed my eyes, and my cramped hands relaxed on either side of me.

oooOOOooo 18th April 1887

In the morning, I was woken by Mrs. Hudson, who brought in the hot washing water. Usually I would have slept longer, but I didn't have the heart to protest. Maybe it was somehow unseemly for a lady to sleep till ten a.m. I peeled myself out of my covers, washed and dressed and styled my hair in the way I had worn it on every single day for two years now. I checked in the mirror of the washstand whether my scars were to be seen. They were not.

"Morning, beautiful!"

Lifting Ginger Jack from my bed where he had spent the greater part of the night and cradling him in my arms, I descended to the first floor and knocked on the door as Mrs. Hudson had instructed me to do.

"Come in", the gruffly voice of my husband ordered, and I opened the door. "Achoo!"

I froze on the threshold, clinging to Ginger Jack as if to a life-saver, though he mewled in protest.

"Get that cat out!" Mr. Holmes bellowed, pressing a handkerchief to his airways.

"But – "

"Out!"

I retreated and let Jack down on the landing in bewilderment.

"Excuse me, madam!" Mrs. Hudson, bearing a tray, swept past me, and I followed hesitantly, closing the door in poor Ginger Jack's face while she laid out the table.

Pulling out a chair for me, she asked: "Do you take tea or coffee, madam?"

"Um – coffee, please."

I sat down, placing the napkin over my lap, for I had a dim conception it was supposed to be this way.

"And your eggs – I forgot to enquire whether you preferred them boiled four or eight minutes?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Mr. Holmes had taken a seat opposite to me, unfolding his newspaper in what apparently was not the sweetest of moods. "Who can possibly care about such things? Now go away Mrs. Hudson, do me a favour and vanish."

She did not seem to take insult at all, she did not even sigh, as if such behaviour were part of her day-to-day routine. Clearing out and shooing Ginger Jack down the stairs, she left us to ourselves. I took some toast and sipped on my coffee gingerly.

"I 'ope ya ain't objecting to the cat?" I asked him, just to break the silence. An annoyed growl was his sole answer. Hidden behind his newspaper, he reached for his cup now and then, barely touching anything substantial. I began to see why he was so incredibly lean. Only later, when I had finished and wanted to get up did he stir.

"Just a second, Kitty."

He flung down his newspaper carelessly and went over to his desk, unlocking the drawer and taking out a small booklet which he handed to me. "There. Your cheque-book."

"Me….?"

My mind reeled. I had never even owned a bank account.

"Certainly. Now go, buy yourself some nonsense or do what pleases you best, but don't get on my nerves. They are high-strung enough as it is."

And with a wave of his hand I was dismissed, just like Mrs. Hudson.

"Thank you", I breathed, but he ignored me, turning his back on me and sitting down in front of his desk. I waited for a minute or so, but he paid me no heed, and finally I withdrew.

oooOOOooo

I had never known how much fun window shopping actually was with money in one's pocket. The hoard I was bearing on my person was not as grand as I imagined in my naivety, but it was certainly more than I had ever had at my avail to purchase frippery. Happily I roamed the roads, the little pile of boxes and packages growing in my arms. Even the cakes and pralines in the window of the confectionary in Regent Street looked more inviting, now that I knew I was able to afford them.

I was even bold enough to venture into a tailor's shop for upper class ladies. Madame scrutinized me and my shabby old dress askance, but the sight of my boxes reassured her. It had been a while since my last visit to a tailor's shop, so we took measures before choosing the materials. I had lost some weight on the jail diet, which was not such a big misfortune, as I am not a beanpole anyway. Madame Lefèvre (for that was her name) designed two outfits for me, a forest green taffeta dress for at home and an evening gown of golden satin and a mink stole to go with it.

I left her shop in near bankruptcy, but with the promise that the dresses would be ready for me in a fortnight from now. Thus I acquired some small presents for Porkey and other friends, and then headed home, since the unpleasant chilly rain of London spring had started to pour down once more.

oooOOOooo

"Is that you, madam?" Mrs. Hudson called when the door fell into its lock at 221b Baker Street.

"Yes." I took off my coat and hung it on the peg at the wardrobe. "Is me 'usband in?"

The landlady exited her private flat and relieved me of some of my boxes. "No madam. I'm afraid Mr. Holmes is away on business."

"But it's lunch time! I'm 'alf famished!"

The old lady looked a little hurt. "I am sorry, madam. Mr. Holmes usually isn't in for lunch, sometimes he doesn't return till supper. However, I prepared some tea and sandwiches for you."

"Thank you…" I felt slight remorse. "That was very thoughtful. And p'raps you 'ave something fer my tomcat?"

"Ah, this dear thing!" Her eyes brightened. "I fed him some minced meat. Such wonderful fur must be well tended!"

"He is very beautiful", I agreed, "but I must ask ya not ter allow 'im too many liberties. Fer instance, ya ain't ter let 'im into Mr. 'olmes' rooms – me 'usband reacts ter it allergically."

"Certainly." Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Would you like your tea now? Shall I serve it in your room? I lit a fire just a few minutes ago."

"Thank ya. That would be lovely."

oooOOOooo

I had a dreadfully solitary tea ceremony. Little by little, being alone was getting on my nerves. I was not used to loneliness. And one could not stitch handkerchiefs all the time, could one? I went out once more to buy some primroses and violets from the flower girl in the street, and arranged in Mrs. Hudson's jam pots, they looked quite nice on my mantelpiece and desktop. What I would ever do with the desk I did not know. I had nobody whom I could write letters to, and apart from that, the use of such furniture escaped me.

A pity, actually. Watson had left a pile of very fine parchment in the left drawer, despite the length of time it hadn't been touched, the sheets had only just begun yellowing. The right drawer was clamped, I could not open it. Just as well. I kneeled down on the rug and wrapped my gifts into tissue paper.

There were only three people I considered deserving of a little souvenir: Porkey (whom I had offended, whatever he might say), Natasha (whom I pitied) and Lorenzo (whom I hadn't seen in ages). I would visit them one of these days, as soon as possible. Thus resolved, I felt better and less alone in the world. And then I set out to look for Ginger Jack.

oooOOOooo

I only saw Mr. Holmes in the evening. Mrs. Hudson had come up blissfully to tell me dinner was ready, and to deliver the two dozens of red roses my oh-so-infatuated husband had sent up for me. I had never cared for those greenhouse roses, with their all too straight stems and lacking the aromatic scent of wild flowers. And what was more, I knew only too well this present did not come in appreciation of my person, but for the purpose of fooling Mrs. Hudson and everybody else.

So I played my part, was overjoyed at the attention, asked for a vase and finally hurried down the stairs as if unable to stay apart from him. He stood by the window, glancing down into the road, which I knew was one of his favourite pastimes. On my entering, he slowly turned his head, only commenting: "Kitty."

"Thank you – thank you for the flowers", I stammered, and, since Mrs. Hudson came in with the dinner this instant, gracefully rushed to his side and embraced him. It was only very brief – I imitated the passionate, yet shy affection peculiar to newlyweds – but I felt his posture stiffen all the same. I think we were both of us glad when we were seated and Mrs. Hudson had left us alone.

"So, how was your day?" I enquired cautiously.

"Not devoid interest. How was yours?"

There again, he was trying to be polite, he was not actually interested in my answer.

"It was quite nice. I went shopping, I needed some new clothes. Ya'll be very angry to 'ear I awready spent most of my chink."

"Hardly that. I would be a fool to allow a woman about to go shopping her whole contingency."

I lowered my eyes. Once or twice did I make another effort to talk to him, but he was cool and had given up all pretense of a conversation. I was under the impression he was pondering something, though whether it was something related to me was more than I could tell. My spirits were somewhat low. Would it be like this always? Then I would probably end up dying of loneliness. When he lit his after table cigarette, I excused myself and went to the door.

"Thanks again fer the roses", I said quietly. "I'll be upstairs now, in me room – in case you should want anything."

He looked up, and through the haze of his smoke I met his grey, remarkably sharp eyes that seemed to pierce mine. He nodded briefly. I stepped up to my chamber, Ginger Jack following me, rubbing against my ankles. I felt utterly miserable.

**Oh dear, loneliness is a nasty thing. Well, at least Kitty has some friends she can turn to, otherwise she'd go mad under one roof with the hermit. How will their relationship develop? I'd love to hear what you think!**

**Cockney: apples - stairs**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter seven: His milde yoak

19th April 1887

The following morning, everything was very much the same. I was woken by Mrs. Hudson, dressed, went downstairs and had breakfast with Holmes, who in the early hours of the day was not only taciturn, but ungracious. I was very much relieved when we parted for the day, he receiving clients with pressing concerns, I with the satisfying and yet intimidating feeling of unlimited freedom.

I chose to visit Natasha today, and hired a hansom cab to bring me to Islington. The drive was short and comfortable compared to travelling on the underground. We arrived at half past ten, and I assume the driver was not one bit surprised to have me alight in such a ramshackle neighbourhood, rather that I paid him in hard cash and without trying any tricks.

I rang at the door of the sordid house and after what seemed like half an eternity, was admitted by the dirty, ragged creature posing as landlady. There was no need to give me a lead down the obscure hallways, but even if I hadn't known my way, I very much doubt she would have taken the trouble to show me in. I knocked on the dull tinted door, whose coat of painting was coming down in long strips.

"Natasha! It's me, Kitty! Are you in?"

I had to wait a minute or two while it shuffled inside, then the door was opened by a pale, thin young woman with sleek dark hair. She was only just tying the belt of her blue negligee over her nightdress. Negligee – or neglected, for that matter – was perhaps a good description of Natasha's appearance in general. Her nails, I perceived, were untended and for the most part broken, her hair was not coiffed and her eyebrows had not been plucked in days. A distinct scent of cheap alcohol wafted from her apartment.

"Kitty…I haven't seen you in so long." I let myself be embraced and directed into the flat, where Natasha removed empty bottles and full ashtrays from the table for me to put my things on it.

"Cigarette?"

"Nah, thanks."

"Right. You're not a smoker, I forgot." She lit one for herself which she smoked in a long silvery holder. I observed her closely as she stood there by the stained, dingy washstand, tall and thin, even taller and thinner in her sloppy, informal dress. It was a dramatic and terrible change. Any observer who saw her now, with her skin so pale and the cheekbones jutting from her distinguished face would not have dreamed of comparing her to the healthy, spirited beauty she must have been only some years earlier. But that had been before Baron Gruner.

"I got great news, ya knows. I got hammered. Fer loife."

"Really?" She turned her languid, weary face on me.

"Yes, only yesterday."

"Not Porkey, I presume?"

"Oh, no. It's Kitty 'olmes now. Wait a second, I write down me new address an' ya comes an' visit me sometime…"

Natasha shook her head in that peculiar, supine of hers. "It's very kind, Kitty. But you know I'm not going out nowadays."

"Ya can't sit in this 'ere mouse 'ole all the time", I urged her. "Yer life's only jus' begun…"

Natasha tossed the head on her long neck and laughed. It sounded dead and mirthless, it made my skin grow goose bumps. Hastily I turned my head away from the eerie sight. I had come to know Natasha Orlansky through an advertisement, only after the incident that had figured in the newspapers one year ago. She had contacted me, seeking consolation in my story. At first, she had mainly wanted to thank me for what I had done to defeat Gruner, but we found we were fond of each other and met more frequently. Natasha bore no scars like I, she had never been tortured physically. Baron Gruner had inflicted something far worse on her.

It was quite a different case from mine. I had never had something to loose apart from my pride and sanity. Natasha, on the other hand, had been in a position to fall deep. Family, friends, fortune, prospects, good name – all gone through this one fatal affiliation. She now went by her polish mother's maiden name, and lived on what she had been able to gain by selling her jewelry. And the worst thing probably was that she was only one out of a hundred similar cases.

I shook my head to get rid of the vision of all these girls, some on the brimstone in sombre streets, others vegetating in narrow, unwholesome lodgings like this one, bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other, and their once pretty faces withered with grief and worry.

"Anyways", I said loudly, and Natasha turned her graceful neck, not laughing anymore. The deep sorrow behind her midnight eyes unfolded worlds and worlds of woeful misery. I never dared to look into them too deeply, lest they should suck me in and drown me in their chagrin. "Anyways, darling, look what's good in 'aving a solvent 'usband."

I reached into my pocket and retrieved the large, lovely box of caramels I had bought at _L'artisan de chocolat _on the previous day.

"Oh…Kitty…!" For an instant, Natasha's eyes seemed less desperate and unfathomable, they gleamed, and I could catch a glimpse of the black-eyed, carefree child she must have been at some point. She rushed over and flung herself down next to me, grabbing the box and opening the bow that was wrapped around it. We giggled in gleeful anticipation, and when the lid had been removed and the whole glory was lying in our reach, we sighed devoutly.

"Which shall we try first?"

Her hand hovered over the caramels, until she decided on a piece with chocolate and pistachio topping. I watched her breathlessly as she opened her mouth and stuffed the praline in.

"Well?"

"Hmmm…sooo good."

"I'll have the same, then."

Swiftly grabbing a matching piece, I bit one half of and let it melt on the tip of my tongue. It was paradisiacal.

"Goes down me billy goat loike…loike..."

"Like Manna. Let's have another one, then."

And we sat there, the magic carton on our knees, chit-chatting lively and from time to time grinning at each other sheepishly, because life had regained its beauty for an hour.

oooOOOooo

I left at Natasha's about six o'clock, feeling slightly sick on the drive back home. Perhaps I should have exercised some reticence, but that was idle thinking now, my stomach turned at every rough move of the hansom cab. Well, next time I'd know better. Gladly I stepped out at 221b, paid the cabby and went in.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"In here, madam!" The landlady called from the kitchen. I peeked in scrupulously, but the smell of food made me retreat in a hurry.

"I'm sorry, I won't want any dinna tonight."

"None at all?"

"No. I – um – I 'ad dinna on the way. You may tell Mr. 'olmes I've already reclined."

"Certainly, madam. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Well…I wonder whether ya could lend me something ter read?"

She stepped out of the kitchen in her pristine apron, the white hair coiffed as neatly as usual. "I'm not sure, madam. I am not a great reader, I haven't got the time."

"Nor am I", I replied with some embarrassment. "It was always a question o' the bees wiv me. Tha's why I need ter catch up a li'le."

"Hum. Why don't you have a look at Mr. Holmes' books? He has plenty of them. Of course, they are mostly scientific treatises, but I'm sure you'll find a nice novel if you look closely."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'll do that", I replied lamely, in default of a good excuse. I knew Mr. Holmes didn't want me to invade his privacy, but on the other hand, he wouldn't like Mrs. Hudson to become suspicious, either. So I went up and browsed the vitreous book closet in the drawing room.

The landlady had been right, it contained crime records and books on mathematics, anatomy and chemistry for the most part, with some lighter reading in between here and there. I chose a slim volume of poetry by John Milton and retired to my room, where Ginger Jack was waiting for me, running around full of vim, kicking a piece of burnt coal under the bed and retrieving it, just to kick it into the next corner.

I paid him no attention and sat down in the rocking chair. The book opened on a certain page of its own accord, as if it had been perused more often than the others. Bending over it, I read:

_John Milton, Sonnet 16_

_When I consider how my light is spent, _

_E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,_

_And that one Talent, which is death to hide,_

_Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent_

_To serve therewith my maker, and present_

_My true account, least he returning chide,_

_Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,_

_I fondly ask; But patience to prevent_

_That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need _

_Either man's work or his own gifts, who best_

_Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State_

_Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed_

_And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:_

_They also serve who only stand and waite._

I flicked back to the first page. _Nathaniel Holmes, 1821,_ it said in tall, bulky capital letters, but the name had been crossed out with a thick line, and replaced with that of _Sherlock Holmes_ in a shaky, puerile hand. I shut the book and looked more closely at the cover. It was quite old and battered, and the binding was coming apart at the seams. I re-opened it. Again, the same page offered itself to me. It was worn, crumpled and dog-eared, and at the bottom of the page, there was a child's finger print in liquid bromide.

**Okay, obviously Holmes had quite a puritan upbringing if he read Milton at this early age. Probably not quite the milieu Kitty grew up in. What do you think of poor Natasha? Keep her in the story? Yes? No?**

**Dear, dear. Next chapter's going to be – um – awkward. Right, exactly **_**that**_** is going to happen. Prepare mentally and morally!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter eight: Marital duty

19th April 1887

I had been sleeping, for it was late, when there was a hesitant knock on the door. It was opened ever before I could answer it, and to my great surprise, Holmes stepped in. He was in his burgundy dressing gown which revealed the white collar and hem of his nightshirt, and in his hand he held a candle, but placed it on a stool next to the door ere he closed it gently behind him. I sat up and turned on the lamp by my bedside. It spread its soft, yellow light on his features that he managed to keep void of any expression.

My sleepy eyes followed him throughout the chamber, and my heart beat slightly faster, my throat growing dry as I saw him slipping off his dressing gown and laying it carefully over the back of a chair. True, I became nervous when I grasped his intention, but did not panic. I was not a naïve little girl, to be sure, Baron Gruner and others had prepared me only too well in that respect. Nonetheless, during the last two years or so, I had not once been with a man.

The first year after the vitriol incident, I had been too sensitive for the male touch, then there had been my revenge and consequential imprisonment, and the months after my release, I had still been susceptible and embarrassed, and scrupulous in letting anyone see how much my once flawless body was impaired.

This, however, was different. It was not as though I sought his affection or approval of my body, so there was nothing to worry about. It was just part of the bargain. I inhaled deeply and tried to be at my ease.

"Turn down the light, please", he requested, looking at me but indirectly.

I flinched. Apparently, he did not wish to be confronted with even the sight of my face. Very well, then. I raised my hand to the flickering lamp and dimmed the light, until the chamber lay in near darkness. He remained where he was, standing at my bedside, leaving it for me to draw back the cover. I did what was expected of me, exposing me to the chill air of the room, and reclining onto my pillows.

Everything was fine. We were just acting according to a set plan. Breathing calmly, I took in the fresh smell of the cold air, the new starched bed linen, which slightly rustled when he lowered himself onto me. Due to the gloom, I did not so much see as feel him, and experience the faint trace of Turkish blend tobacco that seemed to engird him wherever he went.

He re-covered us with the duvet, thus taking the coldness from my body, but hindering my free flow of breath, for he was exceedingly heavy. I presume he noticed the discomfort he caused me, as he supported the weight of his tall frame on his forearms on either side of me, so as not to touch me with his hands.

I felt an incredible awkwardness, which I could not even take away by means of a kiss, though his face was only inches apart from mine, hovering in the darkness above me. It was business. It was just business, I told myself over and over again. And yet, the rush of excitement coursed my blood as he gingerly reached between us, lifting the hems of both our nightshirts, just enough to render our task feasible.

Instinctively, I tilted my hip forwards, and slightly spread my thighs as my eyes closed of their own accord. I had become much too sensitive. Everything was perfectly all right. At least he would not intentionally hurt me like Adalbert Gruner had. Everything was fine…I actually succeeded in calming down as I started to receive his rough, inexpert thrusts, cautiously moving along with him.

He appeared to be remarkably collected, though I could not see his face naturally. I simply was grateful for the comparative consideration he treated me with. The Baron had literally used me…had made me read to him from his odious book while he touched himself…no woman should ever be reduced to such humiliation.

_Flashback…_

"_Eva. Let's read about how I dealt with Eva, my precious."_

_He fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, but I was oblivious to it, browsing what I had thought was his diary for the girl named Eva._

"_Well, 'ere we are. Eva Staiger. So, a lass from your 'ome country? She looks lovely, Adalbert. Beautiful skin, fair barnet an' all that. Is she that pretty in reality?"_

"_She is nothing compared to you, my fiery, red-haired hell-cat", he panted, and I became aware of what he was doing. "Go on."_

_Rather disturbed, but afraid to show it, I cleared my throat and resumed my reading. _

"_Eva. Dark hair, blue eyes, five feet in height. Trademark attraction: Unusually large…t-tits…"_

_My voice faltered, but in between lecherous groans, he urged me to carry on with what he obviously needed to fuel his activity. _

"_Preferences: The little slut is the most eager blow I've ever come across in my wide-ranging experience. She likes to kneel on her hands and knees, offering her lips to me, cherishing my presence in her mouth until I start in earnest to…"_

_In the meantime, the man next to me was bringing himself off with his hands. I couldn't stand it. "No!" The sound of the book being slammed shut roused him from his ecstasy. "I can't! It's repulsive, and worse, it's unnatural! You're a sodomite, Adalbert! I won't read fer you any more from this book."_

_He hissed at my face and I smelled his breath, laced with alcohol. "Oh, you don't want to, do you? I'll show you what it means to deny me gratification. You will repent this, girl…"_

_To my surprise, he rose from our mattress without any offer of violence, and left the room just as he was. Getting on my feet, I tried to dress with trembling hands. I needed to be gone ere he returned…Adalbert had never been a man to trifle with…I knew he had killed people._

_How was I supposed to escape from the house? If I could only manage to get dressed in such a manner as to attempt my flight! Neglecting to put on any underwear, I slipped on my blouse. Quickly! No need for a corset, I would never succeed in lacing it myself, anyway. Nervously fussing with the buttons of my blouse, I heard his steps re-approaching in the hallway. Oh God, it was too late! Oh God, help me!_

_He stormed in and I had not even the time to lift an arm in defence of my partially undressed self. The liquid splashed all over my bosom, it quickly soaked through the fabric of my blouse, it dripped down the side of my neck…and my flesh was burning, burning in pain that seemed never to subside…_

I came back to my senses and the present time by the degree the strokes of the man currently with me became more controlled, more measured. I opened my eyes, bye and bye adapting to the surrounding darkness, and even daring to shift a little, so as to communicate to him the slight ache his subsistent inaptness caused me.

He reacted swiftly by modifying his movements and my eyes met his, relatively aloof and detached in his unmoved visage. It was all right. He had no intention of doing me harm. His touch was tender and considerate, there was no sense of humiliation in it. I relaxed at last. Perhaps - If he would just touch me, show a little kindness…it might be almost…pleasurable…

I berated myself in the strongest possible terms when first this feeling imposed itself upon me. It was not what I had bargained for, and I was certain he wouldn't want this. But the sensation grew stronger swiftly and there was nothing I could do about it. I hadn't been with a man in so long…

As if with a will of their own, my hips ground against his wantonly and a soft moan escaped my lips, my back slightly arching. He paused, and stared down at me, trying to calculate what he saw with his cold, emotionless eyes. A frown. A slight shake of his head.

All of my limbs stiffened, I pressed my eyes shut and kept still, dead still. It was just business, for goodness' sake. I had given offence, my reaction obviously somewhat upset him. Striving for regular breath, I surrendered to him, apparently listless.

Soon he resumed his rhythm, not uttering a sound safe a stifled gasp when he came to completion, which was pretty soon as he had taken no pains to prevent it. I lay perfectly still while his hot semen spurted through my womb, and even afterwards. My eyes were closed invariably. I could feel him withdraw from my body, I felt and heard him get up from the bed and pull over his dressing gown. On silent feet, he crossed the room. When at the door, he lingered for a moment, and I had been about to open my eyes a little as he finally pushed down the handle.

"Pray forgive me", Sherlock Holmes whispered in the dusk. Then he was gone and I dared to turn up the gas-light once more.

oooOOOooo

This was the way it went on for the entire following fortnight. I would see him in the morning at breakfast, and then again in the evening, when we both had returned from our respective activities. Sometimes he would skip supper or come in after I had retired, but he reliably stepped up to my chamber every second or third night, in pursuit of his rigidly envisaged aim.

Like on the first occasion, he never lost his control and dealt with me respectfully, but coldly. Every time, he would apologize afterwards, though I complained not once. There was nothing to complain of, in fact. My new life pleased me and allowed me a lot of liberties, and the little inconvenience did not bother me too greatly. I learned to remain passive and just let everything happen.

Apart from the ultimate intimacy, nothing personal ever happened between my husband and me. We avoided each other and talked little when we were obliged to be together. It was all too apparent that by sealing our bargain, something had broken between us. The timid friendship we once had shared, I regret to say, had extinguished thoroughly, and for all that I could see, permanently.

**There. **_**It **_**has happened.**

**And, for Christ's sake! Holmes is not making things easier for either of them. He must have some real queer problem. I mean how twisted can you be? His wife's supposed to be a stunning vamp, scars and all! I guess he would have preferred artificial fertilization - or rather cloning?**

**And deplorable Kitty…blames it all on her misused body…very sad. Will the damage to her friendship with Holmes really prove irreparable?**

**Love, your bewildered and concerned and totally non-approving Mrs.F**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter nine: Amber and an interview

29th April 1887

One evening, approximately ten days after my marriage, I returned home somewhat later than usual, having made my rounds with Lorenzo Burini. There was a writing fellow Lorenzo had wanted me to meet, but he had not shown up in the end, so we had taken one last Irish Coffee together at Ernie's pub and separated for the night. Poor Lorenzo was still apologetic in his behaviour. I was not sure whether he would ever accept that I had forgiven him. And that there had never been anything to forgive to begin with.

Still engaged in my ruminations, I ascended the seventeen steps to the first landing, with a mind of proceeding to my own room, when I saw light seeping out from under my husband's door, and I heard the gentle ring of voices. Apparently, he was not alone. Who might his caller be? Certainly not a client, at this hour. Mr. Holmes' clients _did_ keep strange hours, but it was after eleven now. My curiosity got the better of me and I entered quietly, suppressing the urge to knock as I usually did when he was alone.

Presently, I beheld Dr. John Watson sitting by the fireplace, my husband walking the heart rug, his back turned on me. He had obviously just come in, for he was still wearing his boots and ulster, the riding crop of which I had never been able to guess the designed use sticking between the fingers of his buoyantly gesticulating hand.

"…finally let me have a look at her", he just told his friend the doctor. "Inconceivable, Watson! Abominable! And there goes Athelney Jones professing nothing has to be done about it, because it happened in a low quarter to a disreputable person."

"Maybe he considered it a one-time incident", the doctor suggested.

"Then he needs to open his eyes. A rogue that slits a woman's throat, mutilates her lower abdomen until it is a bloody mess, rips out her uterus…"

"Um – Holmes", Watson disrupted uneasily, having noticed my arrival. His companion whirled around, almost choking on his own words.

"Oh, it's you", he finally uttered, as was his habitual acknowledgement of my presence. "Did you have a nice day my dear? You're in late."

"I 'ad an outing with some friends", I replied, curiously looking from him to Watson. "Good evening, doctor."

"Good evening, Miss – Mrs. Holmes", he corrected himself, rising to grasp my hand. "And pray, allow me to congratulate you belatedly on the happy event of your betrothal."

"Thank you, sir." I beamed up at him. The _rôle _of the blissful wife was becoming second nature with me, I did not find it as hard to simulate as I used to. "And, may I ask – " My eyes wandered back to Holmes, "what was the subject o' the conversation I so rudely disturbed? A case, I reckon?"

Watson blanched. "Er – yes. Yes, that is to say…."

"The murder of a woman in Buck's row, Whitechapel, during the last night", my husband said dryly. "A certain Mary Ann Nichols. She was slaughtered with quite unnecessary atrocity, which is really the only feature of interest about the thing."

"But I think you mentioned the bottles – the police, I mean – feel not inclined to do something about it? Why is that?"

Poor Doctor Watson's complexion changed from white to pink, and again, it was Holmes who had to give the answer. "The murder took place in a certain district of low reputation. The victim herself was, as you might say, a lady of the night." He did not once look at me as he told me this.

"Oh – I see. So you are attaching a lot o' importance to this crime?"

"Indeed I do. But we weary you with these things, my dear."

"Not at all, Sherlock."

I had grown accustomed to using his first name when in company, though in my mind I still referred to him as Mr. Holmes, curiously enough. Occasionally it even slipped out in the presence of others, but he did not mind that, for many wives are addressing their husbands with their surnames.

"Well, at least it is not a topic to be discussed in front of ladies", Mr. Holmes decided. "Which reminds me…I – that is, _we_ have been asked to attend Lady Goodwin's May Ball in Somerset House, on the first of the month, which is two days from now. I hope you didn't resolve to undertake something on this particular date?"

"Uh – no, I didn't", I returned, surprised at this piece of information. Usually, Holmes was not too keen on society and would shun gatherings of this sort. I did not dare to dig deeper, though, not with Watson listening to us. Perhaps I was supposed to understand the meaning of this, or find it natural.

"An anonymous prospective client extended the invitations to us", Holmes enlightened me in my puzzlement. "He shall approach me in an unobserved moment, for there is every reason for the assumption that his steps are under supervision. Thus he is unable to call on me here, in Baker Street. I shall take you, Watson, and Mrs. Watson, to give my excursion the appearance of a social outing."

"Ah, so that's why", it escaped my lips quite inadvertently.

He gave a faint smile. "Yes, that's why. Do you have something fit to wear on the occasion?"

"The dress maker assured me two weeks ago me evening gown would be ready fer me in a fortnight."

"Excellent, my dear", Watson chimed in, "and I hope you will make good friends with my wife. She is already much excited about the invitation, but I'm afraid she won't see much of me all evening."

"O' that I'm sure", I said, politely smiling at the doctor, but he did not actually seem to notice, for his eyes were fixed on his friend.

"Holmes?" he drawled.

"Watson?"

"You have not as yet shown what you purchased today to Mrs. Holmes. I'm convinced she'll adore it."

I fiddled with my hair smiling irresolutely, as I was quite in the dark as to what he might mean. Holmes seemed to be somehow peeved by his remark, but after shooting lethal glances at the doctor reached into the depths of his ulster and produced an elegant rose wood case with a _De Vries Diamonds_ label on the lid. "This is for you", he observed with as little coldness as he could bring himself to display. "A late wedding gift."

Thunderstruck, I accepted and opened the case, which contained a solid golden necklace composed of two ornaments in the shape of Celtic wave symbols, joined together by an amber cameo in their midst.

"How lovely", I stammered, lost for a more apropos reaction. I had received valuable presents from men before, but never something chosen with such perfect taste and insightful consideration. It would match my gown admirably.

"She must try it on!" Watson urged. "Lay it around her neck, old chap!"

Giving in to his cajoling, Holmes gently took the piece of jewelry from my hands and stepped behind me, his long, thin hands reaching around my neck on either side. The sensation of it was foreign, but strangely captivating. His fingertips brushed over my unimpaired skin at the collarbone, and I could very faintly feel his breath on my nape. I marveled at my reception of his fleeting touch, as I was frequently exposed to much greater liberties on his part.

"Look into the mirror over there."

Like a puppet on a string, I followed his directions, desperately trying to appear as though his kindness were the most perfect normalcy to me.

"Indeed, it suits her red hair wonderfully", Watson crowed like a child in delight. "Beautiful! Beautiful!"

I insecurely fingered the necklace, which did not quite show to advantage because I did not wear a décolleté. The doctor's presence made me more and more uneasy, I was dimly conscious he now expected some sign of gratitude, or worse, affection. I hesitated. This time, a plain embrace would surely not suffice. A kiss, perhaps? I saw my cheeks flush slightly in the looking-glass. A kiss was quite superfluous.

"I love it! Thank you, Sherlock!" Turning around and placing my hands on his arm, I got to the tips of my toes and lightly pecked his clean shaven cheek. The skin felt smooth and soft. He did not tense or wince, he simply accepted it with a frosty smile.

"I am delighted to hear it. And now, Watson", he continued, withdrawing his arm from my hands casually, "we should return to the medical particulars of the case, for so we may call them, since the destructive _oeuvre _almost equals a surgical operation in the degree of skill required."

Again, Watson paused, looking into my direction scrupulously, and I understood they desired me to leave.

"Then I bid you good night, gen'lemen", I quickly said. "It was a pleasure ter meet with you again, Dr. Watson. We shall see you on the first, then. Pray give my best t'yer wife."

"I shall. Thank you madam, and good night."

In passing my husband, I whispered another word of thanks in a hushed voice, so as to evince an impression of close intimacy. However he did not seem to hear me, he was already too much absorbed in his current problem. But I felt Dr. Watson's eyes follow me to the door, and at a last glance, I observed a slight pensive crease between his brows.

oooOOOooo

"Holmes?"

Watson remarked quite a while later, when the disgusting details of the Whitechapel murder had been discussed _ad nauseum_. "Don't you think you dealt a little rashly with your young bride? I mean, you could have broken the news of the ball in a somewhat more sensitive manner. Remember, Kitty is not used to this level of society and will possibly be apprehensive about the event."

Holmes frowned, stopping in mid pace. "Do you believe she might disgrace me?"

"Oh, no, no, heavens. The mere idea! She possesses far too high a degree of natural delicacy for that to happen. But it is designative for you to assume that. You will forgive me for saying this, but in your associations with her, you appeared somewhat distant…more than distant. Almost removed. I wonder how she feels about that."

His friend snarled impatiently. "Kitty has grown to know me quite well, which is more than I apparently could say of you. How did you expect me to react? Draw her into my arms and reassure her of her adequacy to deal with people of elevated rank? Such conduct is not in my nature, I find it preposterous. The female psyche, without being interesting, holds a good many mysteries for me, mysteries I have no desire to unravel. You understand it better than I, Watson. Why do _you_ not go after Kitty and make amends for my insensitive treatment of her?"

"Why? Because you are her husband, not I! For heaven's sake, Holmes!" Watson tossed his note paper aside. "Do you hear yourself talking?"

When his friend gave no reply, but, leaning onto the back of a chair, indignantly gazed out of the window into the street, he gave an exasperated sigh. "I am sorry, old chap. I know I had no business to meddle with your private concerns in the first place - "

"No, I trust you had not."

" - but I must say I am worried for Kitty's welfare. Ladies are more susceptible as it is. You must make concessions." He paused briefly. "Might I perhaps ask you yet another personal question, my boy?"

Holmes indicated by an indifferent shrug of the shoulder his raising no objections.

"Why did you marry her?"

The detectives' fingers distinctively dug into the velvet lining of the chair. "One would assume that marrying the one you love were a thing not too far up Queer Street."

"Yes, but _do_ you love her?"

Watson was holding his breath, almost convinced he had gone too far, when his intransparent companion turned around with a chuckle. "You have a custom of making the most pathetic triteness sound like an intricate enigma. Try to apply a little common sense yourself. Do I love her? Of course I do! Pray why would I marry a traumatized criminal from of the kennel if I were in my right senses?"

"Certainly", Watson mumbled unconfidently, but with some degree of relief, "Certainly. You must excuse…"

**Err…! Not very convincing to me. I'm beginning to suspect it is not only Holmes who shies away from a confrontation…but after all, it **_**is**_** his problem, not Watson's. **

**I wonder though how much longer they will want to perform this hideous comedy. It must be rather tedious in the long run, don't you think?**

**Yours, Mrs.F**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter ten: My fair lady

30th April 1887

I dropped in on Madame Lefèvre in the morning, and I took my necklace to see how it matched my evening gown. The colour of the fabric was just as I had reminisced, and the rich, golden tint was repeated in the gleaming jewelry, and occasional sparks in my hair which for once I let down. The mirror reflected my radiating face. You must not think me foolish, or superficial, hearing how much pleasure I derived from this fancy frippery. I beg you to remember I had not had a new dress in years, and certainly not such a splendid one – much less an opportunity to wear it.

I turned to the left, then to the right, then to the left again in my delight, and Madame cried: "_Magnifique_, ! You look a changed woman. This gown makes you a queen!"

"Thank ya!" I returned with an overjoyed smile, slightly reddening. "You certainly did an admirable job."

It was not an exaggeration. My dress was sheer satin, without any ornaments, but with a small train, and the not too deep neckline had been subtly veiled with organza, so as to blur the sight at the region where the scars began to trail down my décolleté. I found it very considerate of the tailor to have done it of her own accord, and without raising the question of my impairment, which she must have had observed when taking my measures. In addition, I had my mink stole to wrap around my shoulders, so that not a hint of the hideousness was to be discerned.

"Thank ya very, very much, Madame."

My taffeta dress was also _prêt à porter_, but it was less glamorous and not half as exciting for me. In my gratitude, I bought a nightdress and some lingerie before leaving Madame's shop, with the promise of returning as soon as I saw the need for a new dress.

The following hours I spent at the _Cock&Horse_, where my necklace went from hand to hand, and I was quite a bit chaffed for my sudden refinement.

"Gimme the necklace", Al Whittaker exclaimed, taking it between two fingers at every end. "Gawd awmighty! How she sparkles! Ain't she fancy? Ain't she a treat for pretty Kitty?", which resulted in much hilarity and my being called nothing but Pretty Kitty for the rest of the day.

"Get yer paws off me jewelry!" I groused, snatching it from his grasp. "All o' you!"

His mouth was agape in comical surprise, and the rest of the bar started to snicker. "Blimey", he finally observed. "She ain't gonna have her price taken off her, that's for sure. Where did you get your temper from, gal?"

"Must be the itch o' married loife!" Ernie called across the bar. "Eh, Kitty, ever'thing going smooth there?"

"Ay", Porkey confirmed. "As long as a woman gets tokens loike those, ever'thing's fine. She's going down well wiv 'er 'usband."

"Nah she must be going down _on_ 'im, more like", Ernie returned with a brazen grin.

I rolled my eyes heavenwards, while Al laughed until he choked on his ale. He amused himself greatly, apparently he believed himself to be surrounded by the most entertaining set of people he had ever met. However it would not take him long to discover we actually were the lamest association of terrible bores.

Because we still laughed about them, little did any newcomer suspect that the stories we told had been repeated a hundred times before, in lack of any breaking news in our lives. The moment I had revealed my betrothal to my friends, I had been aware they would clutch at this juicy piece of sensation interrupting the monotony of their existence, and I had known it would become the target of ceaseless gossip, speculation, prophesy, calculation, betting, surmising, advising, chaffing and lewd jokes.

"I just wisht you wouldn't make me laugh my head off", Whittaker panted, wiping the corners of his eyes with his sleeve. "Jesus Christ. Tell me, Ernie, do you find Pretty Kitty changed? Do you find her real swell now that she's dabbing it up with a gen'leman?"

"Don't listen to them. They don't know how ter behave when a woman's around", Porkey told me, pulling Al's tweed cap over his forehead and eyes.

oooOOOooo

Around noon time, I had quite enough of the banter and returned home, where I was sure to find the sandwich and cup of coffee reliably had ready for me. I had almost climbed the stairs to my room, however, when she called after me: "Madam! I laid out your tea in the drawing room today. Mr. Holmes is in, so I presumed you would like to have it together…"

"I see."

A slight frown etched into my forehead. This was most unusual. As a rule, Holmes would rise early, see clients in the morning, leave the house at some point during the day and return only at dinner time. I had never known him to deviate from this routine in the whole two weeks of our married life.

"Thank you, Mrs.'udson. Take these parcels up fer me, will ya?"

I waited till she was out of earshot, and knocked at my husband's door, entering only when he asked me to. My surprise augmented when I found him in shirt sleeves at his work bench, busy with several small vials of a murky, mud-coloured content. Obviously, he had not left the house at all.

"Oh, it's you. Mrs. Hudson has put your sandwich over there on the sideboard. Ring the bell if your tea has grown cold. You must excuse me, I am not hungry."

He stooped over his curious occupation again, and I went to fetch my luncheon and settled down by the window.

"I am surprised to see", he observed after some little time, and without lifting his head," that you prefer Madame Lefèvre's to all the other tailor shops in Bond Street, for I find her a little conservative in her taste. Then again, I don't claim to be an expert in ladies' couture."

I felt my mouth gape open, and hurried to shut it.

"No doubt you are at a loss to explain how I know of your choice", he proceeded, looking up with a clement smile.

"Yer right, I can't explain it. You would 'ave 'ad a clue if I 'ad brought my packages in, but as it is…"

"It's simplicity itself", he declared. "Ever before you went out today, I suspected she would be your aim, for you mentioned it took your tailor a fortnight to make your dress. The amount of time is unusual, but Madame Lefèvre is known for her independency, she is the rare kind of tailor that employs no other seamstresses and does nearly everything on her own."

"Not bad", I chuckled, "but a somewhat shaky hypothesis, after all."

"Tut, it is not all data I have", he cried, raising one of his vitreous vials to the light. "Apart from the bill sticking out of one of your gloves, your boots supply me with another very suggestive clue. It is due to my current examination that I am able to deduce from it your whereabouts in the morning."

"I'm afraid I cannot guess at what this clue might be", I returned in puzzlement, glancing down at my boots.

"The splashes, my dear! The stains of humid soil! This clayish brick-coloured substance to be found in Bond Street and environments is quite unique, but the only way to come upon bare soil is to cross the public green space in front of Madame Lefèvre's, corner Hannover Square, if I am not much mistaken. I can see you also visited Sevendials, but later, for the splashes are not as yet dried up on the boot-cap."

"You seem to know the colour and consistence of the soil in almost every part of town", I marveled. "Is that what your current experiment is about?"

"Exactly." With a wave of his hand, he proudly indicated the array of glass containers on his bench. "This is what kept me busy during the past weeks. I made excursions far and wide throughout the City, taking samples from every district. Two hundred specimen in thirteen days. I don't count the lost day when I was detained at a police station in Soho for breaking up the pavement on the sidewalk with a chisel."

"You appear to 'ave made a very thorough study o' it."

"It will be of inestimable use to me. I had knowledge in this field before, but it was incomplete and unsystematic. This series, however, will enable me tell any place in Greater London any man or woman may have come from, without fail."

"I congratulate you", I replied, mildly mocking him, but he did not seem to realize, taking my words at face value. I finished my tea quietly and then went over to have a look at the slate-brick-ochre-and ink coloured bits of soil he had distributed on a white sheet of paper, transforming them into muddy splotches with a water pipette. Apparently, he thought it the most sensible and rewarding of pastimes, and I decided to leave him in that belief.

"Well, enjoy yerself", I chuckled, "but if them splotches should take up yer time tomorrow, you 'ad better not change into yer evening dress too early, lest it be besmirched."

"Lest it be…." he turned around slowly, then rose so suddenly I had to recoil instantly. "Besmirched?" he repeated, deeply hurt, "besmirched? My good woman, you will hardly ever have seen me besmirched, or in any other inadequate state of dress! I do not suppose you are in any way entitled to teach me how to attend an event of this category!"

To say I was confused would have been an understatement. "But 'olmes, I assure you I didn't mean ter – "

"There!" he cried exasperatedly. "Mind your own shortcomings! Perhaps you will eventually take the pains of learning to pronounce this name properly. **H**olmes, it's **H**olmes, Kitty! Pray tell me you are not going to humble me in public by h-dropping a name that is not only, since recently and by mere chance, linked to your person, but first and foremost to my own!"

I felt my eyes water with burning humiliation. How could he be so cruel and make merry of my low level of breeding and education? I had tried hard to work on my accent, I really had!

He saw very well he had hurt my feelings with his tactless words, and calmed down a little. "There, there, my lass. Don't look so glum. I am somewhat annoyed at times, you know that, and you should also know I am not always serious."

"No", I muttered, "No, I know you aren't."

"So pray don't sulk, I can't stand a sulking woman. There's a good girl."

I made an effort and smiled, and he briefly smiled back at me.

"Alright", I said, taking care not to relapse into my customary speech habits. "See ya ba – later."

I headed over for the door, when he called: "By the way, Kitty…"

"Yes?" I turned around quickly. He had resumed his occupation, his eyes unflinchingly fixed on it.

"How did you plan to spend your afternoon? Are you going out again?"

"No", I replied, "actually I intended to go upstairs and lay down for a while."

"Oh, I see", he remarked casually. "Ahm – I shall – join you – in a couple of minutes, when I'm done here – that is, if you have no objection."

I felt an inexplicable hot and cold shiver pass through my body, and I had to avert my face, which I felt must be flaming red. "No…no, please. I'm - at present - I can't – that is…"

"Of course", he replied hastily, "I quite understand. Naturally, I shall leave you alone then."

He coughed gently. This piece of information seemed to be more embarrassing to him than anything had before.

"Well…so long, then", I stammered unhappily, escaping his presence and sinking against the closed door on the outside with a little sigh, eyes shut. If only, only I could become pregnant as soon as possible, all would be well. How was I supposed to survive this constant ordeal of awkwardness? How was he?

**Well Kitty! You have made your bed and now you must lie in it…and no, this is not the least bit a collocation *snigger* I know I have a heart of stone. But perhaps there is a spark of hope somewhere in the darkness…though huh, Holmes is terribly sensitive. Why's that? **

**Sorry for the disabled pm, it should be fine now. And thank you so much for all of your lovely reviews!^^**

**Love, Mrs.F**

**Cockney:**

**To dab it up with – to have sex with **

…**my head off – …real hard**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter ten: The anonymous client

1st of May 1887

"KITTY! !"

A loud yell shook up Baker Street 221b to its foundation. "What _on earth_ could be taking so long? Hurry up! It's almost half past seven!"

"Patience, Mr. Holmes!" pleaded, doing up the hooklets on back. "You must allow us a sensible amount of time."

An unceremonious snort was to be heard from behind the door. "You've had that, and far more! Watson and his wife are waiting. You may tell the lady, , that if she isn't ready in five minutes, she'll have to go just as she is!"

"Oh really, Mr. Holmes, must you spoil everything for us…."

The landlady fastened the jewelry round my neck, and I hastily put some final touches to my coiffure. I had done up my hair in an intricate Empress-Elizabeth-Style, adorned with a white rose matching my elbow-length gloves. A French plait to the side ensured the concealment of my marred skin.

"Thank you, Mrs.'udson!" I breathed, stuffing my handkerchief into my bosom and grabbing my fan, "That'll do, I think. We don't want to irritate him further, do we?"

"Heaven's, no madam. Off you go. I wish you an enjoyable evening!"

"Thanks! You're simply the best." I grinned cheerfully, waved her good-bye and clattered down the stairs, swishing past my flabbergasted Ginger Jack.

Mr. Holmes awaited me down in the hall. At the sound of my feet he turned around, tapping the floor with his cane impatiently. "At last! I thought you'd never come. Quickly now! The cab isn't allowed to park in the road much longer."

"Is there nothing you 'ave ter say 'bout me dress?" I asked indignantly.

"What of it?"

"It's new."

"Oh…." He gave me a quick glance. "Well, one can show up with you, I assume. Now come on!"

We embarked on the cab waiting in the street, and away it rattled, down south into the City, through Whitehall and on to the embankment.

oooOOOooo

Mary Watson was a friendly woman. Her calm, genteel appearance impressed me very much, though her dress was sufficiently plain and her style of hair simplicity itself. In character, I found her very much resembling her husband the doctor: Gentle and reserved, but thoroughly benignant. She was a great support to me on the reception, giving me introductions and overriding my every social _faux pas_ with remarkable ease. So when Lady Goodwin, glancing over her pince-nez disparagingly, asked me: "And where does your family originate from, young lady?"

She readily declared: "Oh, is of Irish parentage. They were landowners, though I suppose they descended a line of Celtic clan royalty. Look at this hair! How she bears herself! Do not you feel reminded of Maeve, of Boadicea?"

"Yes, indeed", Lady Goodwin unwillingly returned, "but where have you receive your education, ? Where were you reared?"

"Um – "

"Mrs. Holmes is so very artistic, did you know?" Mary chirruped. "She is acquainted with tremendously gifted contemporary masters. Though I believe she has come across other fields of study, and has been into this and that and anything from art to detective work."

This sufficed to stuff the old bat's gob, and she asked no more. I was immensely grateful to my new companion, though I had to acknowledge to myself that my painting friends hardly ever got anywhere, and that the only land my parents had ever owned even in Ireland had been the garden where we grew our lettuce.

In Somerset House, however, only the most wealthy and distinguished breed of citizens had assembled. I danced with a certain Sir Norman Clifton, who was so august he could not apologize for stepping on my feet, and Mary was asked by a fellow who wore diamonds as cufflinks. She smiled at me encouragingly in every turn, and my mood lightened up, which is more than could be said of my husband. He and Watson constantly were on the look-out for the mysterious client, but hitherto he had failed to show, which displeased the gentlemen quite a bit.

I expected that for Holmes, the thought of having betaken himself to a social event for nothing was close to unbearable. They both had disappeared when Mary and I returned from the dance floor, and we were instantly occupied by Miss Diana Goodwin, her Ladyship's daughter, for she desired us to meet her friends, all of which appeared to be very noble and very much better than we in every respect.

The sight of the three ladies was infinitely funny to me, the way their eyebrows almost touched their hairlines and their noses tilted upwards, though they were no older than we, and had seen a good deal less of the world, I wager. They were not even pretty. I imagined Porkey would have discarded them as "skinny laths with fancy titfers".

"Diana tells us you are a painter", the first of the ladies finally said in what was an extremely charitable tone.

"I ain't exactly. I know some people in that milieu, tha's all."

"Ah…" she wrinkled up her tiny nose at my pronunciation of the French word. "So what is your opinion of the present time's developments in the performing arts, ? What do you think of impressionism?"

"I suppose I like it quite a bit", I replied carelessly, "though some of it looks bleedin' ginger at first glance, 'specially when one stands too close to the canvas. But there are some re'lly splendid fellers, like Sisley, Degas, Manet…"

"I take it you are not acquainted with any of _those_ gentlemen?" the second, somewhat more forward of the ladies broke in.

"No, actually I ain't."

"I thought as much!" she giggled. "Otherwise, Messrs. Dey-gas and Man-ey would have taught you how to say their names properly!"

I glared at the hussy with stony eyes, but she would not cease laughing at me. The stupid cow. My fingers itched with the desire to clutch at her face and scratch out her goggle eyes, and perhaps I would have ended up doing so, had it not been for Mary, who quickly said:

"Look my dear, our husbands. I waved at them, but they don't see me. I expect they wish to join us."

"Well, It's about toime they did", I replied moodily, sending the well-bred ladies into another fit of laughter. "Le's ball over."

Though I did not care one whit for the good opinion of the annoying brats we were leaving behind, I must admit I was somehow glad Mr. Holmes had not witnessed our pleasant exchange, for he certainly would have been very displeased with me. Naturally, I was not dependent on his opinion either, I simply preferred not to quarrel with him, after all he was the very person I was compelled to see on a daily basis.

All the same, quarrel seemed to be nearly inevitable, for meanwhile, he had got himself into a terrible mood, now railing against the client that had neglected to turn up, then against Watson, is if the whole arrangement had been his idea.

"No, no, no, I don't see why I should suffer from the elusiveness of an unknown paranoid. If he doesn't dare to consult me here, under the cover of social merriment, he shan't consult me at all. You'd better go and have your things fetched", he snapped at me, "we shall be leaving instantly."

"Oh, pray allow us another twenty minutes, ", Mary pleaded. "They will fire rockets from the roof-deck presently. I have been looking forward to it so much!"

"You and Watson are of course free to stay, but I'm afraid my wife and I shall…"

"And I'm convinced has been looking forward to it with equal eagerness!" Mary added blandly.

Again, I noticed Watson's searching glance scan my husband and me in turns, and Mr. Holmes must have been aware of it too, for he grudgingly consented: "Fine, another twenty minutes, but no longer than that. Let us go upstairs, then."

We were supplied with sweet punch from a passing footman, and proceeded to the famous Nelson's staircase, when suddenly a tall, bearded gentleman burst out of an adjoining room. A heavy curtain concealed us from his sight, he did not pay attention and forcefully bumped into Mary and me. She managed to keep her equilibrium, but I spilt all of my _Pimm's_ over my dress, dropped the glass, which burst into a thousand splinters, and clung to Mary, almost causing her to trip as well.

"_Ah! Mesdames, je suis tellement désolé_!"

The harm done was not actually great, but I felt profoundly humiliated, and a vivid hatred against the clumsy chap rose in my throat. I had persevered and managed so nicely without a major blunder up to now, just to have the bloody fool ruin my dress and make me appear awkward and incapable in front of my stern critic.

The man, however, did not pay attention to my angry expression, he fussed around us, picking up the things we had dropped, dabbing at my dress with his handkerchief, and waffling away in French incessantly. When he found he had sufficiently apologized to us, he turned to our husbands and continued with those, his chest heaving, his hands waving, his voice altering in pitch so swiftly and extremely it might have driven the listener to the edge of vertigo.

"Your beautiful dress!" Mary tutted sympathetically. "What a misfortune. There, my dear, it will be all right. Tell your good to use salt when washing the stains out. For the time being, you can pull over your mink, it will be rather cold outside anyway."

I followed her advice, still blinking back angry tears as we ascended the stairs. It seemed to me that my whole life was one long and dreary effort to conceal blemishes on my person – deficiencies. Mary gave me a quick smile and reassuringly pressed my hand as we went out onto the roof-deck, our husbands having fallen behind due to the loquaciousness of the mischief maker.

London at night time looked its best from the elevated point from which we contemplated it, and the colourful fireworks that were set alight some minutes later were reflected in the glittering black surface of the Thames. But I felt only misery. The evening had, in total, been a failure. I still smacked the bitter sweet taste of the punch in my mouth, heard the bickering laughter of the young ladies jingling in my ears. What a disappointment I must have given Mr. Holmes, him who always conducted himself with so much dignity. I wondered whether he already regretted his decision to propose to me. I hardly dared to look at him when he and Watson arrived on the deck and came over to meet us by the balustrade.

Only later, when the doctor stood a little apart from us, talking to his wife, did I take the heart to address him. "I am very sorry", I mumbled abashedly.

"Sorry?" He was leaning against the balustrade, with his back to the river, brows slightly arched.

"Yes, I am. I so regret not being more careful with me glass, but that fellow came across us so unexpectedly…"

"Oh! That." He made a depreciating gesture. "It was hardly your fault. I only hope you are not too cold in the night air, with your dress all soaked. Perhaps you had better permit me to cover your shoulders with my jacket."

"No, no. I am fine with me fur stole, thank you." I marveled at his sudden consideration. Where was the grumpy, ill-tempered man that had previously barked at me to fetch my things?

The roof-deck cleared slowly now the fireworks had crepitated, and we followed the Watsons who aimed for the door to the staircase at a leisurely pace. My husband suddenly even started to hum an aria from_Sweet Rosalinde_, which he had only recently declared to abhor. This was a little too much of a strain on my inquisitiveness.

"May I enquire", I ventured, "How it is your mood 'as changed completely in the course o' a few minutes?"

"You find it changed?"

"Very much so. You were totally disgruntled with your elusive client not 'alf an 'our ago."

"Oh was I? I apologize."

"It was alright wi' me. I plainly observe that your temper brightened only after that careless frog bumped into us at the base o' the apples."

"You didn't guess, then?"

"Guess what?"

Sherlock Holmes chuckled softly. "You scatter-brained little woman. _He_ was the anonymous client."

**Cockney:**

**Ginger – queer**

**Titfer – hat**

**To ball over – to walk over**

**Ouf, the three ladies at the party - I just blame it on my watching Downton Abbey too often *grin* It gives you the impression that at that time, nice people were rarer than rubies in good society…**

**Sorry again for the pm. I'm told there were some more problems, but apparently it works now. Hopefully you at least received my answers to your reviews.**

**Did you notice how admirably independent Kitty is on ' good opinion? What a piece of luck *smile***

**Love, Mrs.F**


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter twelve: Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas

2nd May 1887

This gave the evening an altogether new turn. We remained at the ball, and notwithstanding my stained gown, I even had a dance both with Watson and Mr. Holmes. The latter confided in me the pseudo- Frenchman had in fact been an emissary of His Royalty the Turkish Sultan, who desired to engage my husband upon a trifling matter to be set straight for him in London. I expressed my astonishment at his composed attitude, but he declared his not hoping much from the case in and on itself.

"There'll be money in it, I suppose", he remarked indifferently, in his lead manoeuvring us past the silly geese, the friends of Miss Diana Goodwin, and their partners. "Dear me, I hope these dreadful women haven't been too much of a strain upon your nerves. It's just as well business has been settled for today, so that I can spare you their association."

"It is not an object o' my particular desire", I admitted.

"I couldn't possibly blame you for it. Some especially difficult, not to say obnoxious representatives of womankind have assembled in these halls tonight. No doubt you recall Miss Violet Merville?"

"How could I ever forget that nasty pig-'ead?"

"Quite so. I saw her upstairs, on the roof."

"Really? Did she see you?"

"She did, but either failed to recognize me or did not want to."

"The cheek!"

"I must confess she would show better manners by acknowledging our acquaintance, though her gratefulness is a matter that could hardly be of less interest to me."

"What a bleedin'….." I reigned myself in just in time." I beg your Pardon, Mr. Holmes. But if that is the kind of woman you are dealing with on a regular scale, I begin to see why you disapprove of our sex."

"I certainly don't - "

"It's alright, don't apologize. I must say I am not too keen on the friendship of the majority of ladies neither, I prefer the company of men."

"Hum!" he uttered a brief, barking laughter. "How wise."

And we turned in for another round about the great hall.

oooOOOooo

We left at the ball shortly after midnight, dropping the Watsons at their door in Queen Anne Street before proceeding to Baker Street. I had drunk quite some punch and other spirits, and therefore needed my husband's arm to make it out of the cab and up to the house without an accident. To say I was imbibed would perhaps be saying too much, but I certainly felt more adventurous than per usual, and was making much more din.

"Hush, Kitty!" he chuckled, conducting me up the stairs, and I giggled excessively. "You'll be getting the Constable in from the street if you don't cease this rumpus!"

"Yer pardon", I cackled, somewhat muffled, "but it 'as been so bloomin' jolly tonight. I didn't 'ave such fun in donkeys!"

"In….?" He raised an eyebrow, nonetheless smiling. We had by now reached the upper landing, which was illuminated only by the flickering gas-lamp on the wall. I finally stopped tittering, and instead smiled up at him in my blissfully beclouded state. He did not look bad at all in this light. His high cheekbones lent his face something of a distinguished air, and I liked the way fine shadows formed on his temple and beneath the angle of his jaw when for an instant he tilted his head to the side.

"The evening really passed by most amusingly. Thank you", I breathed. My hand had stolen to my plait, playing with it casually.

"Well, it might have been worse", he kindly returned, raising my hand to his lips and lightly kissing it. Still smiling, I made my lashes beat coyly.

"Good night, my dear. Sleep well." Gently inclining his head to me, he turned around and disappeared into his room, leaving me out on the landing.

My mouth set into an angry pout and I rushed up the stairs to my own door. Honestly, sometimes I couldn't make the man out. Here we were in the middle of the night, boozed and consequentially cheerful. What better opportunity to do what had to be done either way? He just complicated everything further by denying us even the smallest pleasure that was to be derived from the necessity. It couldn't be all my scars!

If just he were not so goddamn haughty, he might realize he could have done worse in the choice of a bed fellow. I tossed my head scornfully. By God! I had been with more handsome men than he, and never had any of those been anything but pleased. Why, then, should I care for the approval of Sherlock Holmes, misogynist and former most confirmed bachelor of the Empire? I certainly could see no reason. If he did not wish to amuse himself, then it was his own decision. Rotten luck.

oooOOOooo

It was only in the afternoon of the preceding day that I saw him again. He burst into my room – I was stripping down the tapestry – which was strange enough, for he never entered it except on _business_. Still sulky, I turned around indignantly on my stool, holding my skirts with one hand, while the other was full of pea-coloured flower garland fragments (hopefully Mary had by now averted Watson's taste from such abominations).

"What's the matter?" I snapped at him. "Can't you knock at the door like ordinary mortals do?"

"Very sorry my dear, but I am in a dreadful hurry - Good heavens."

His eyes roamed my chamber, the reels of new tapestry, the pots of viscous wallpaper paste, and the furniture I had pushed together in the centre of the room, covered with white drapery. They moved further up the wobbly stool, to my feet, insecurely balancing on tip-toes, and my bare ankles, whereupon he quickly remembered that he was in a dreadful hurry.

"I wanted to let you know I'm going out."

"So I see", I replied, for he was wearing his _paletôt_ and felt hat.

"Yes, I shall go up to Bedfordshire on a case. It probably will take some days."

"Is it 'bout the Sultan's affairs?" I enquired, stepping down to the floor.

"No, no, that just will have to wait a little. The case at hand is a matter of infinitely less political import, while promising to be immeasurably more interesting."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I would like you to dispatch a telegram for me, if you'd be so kind." He handed me an envelope with a certain Sir James Saunders as an addressee. "In case you should find yourself too busy to go out, you may entrust it to a runner. And another thing, my dear. It would be for the best if you could arrange to stay at a hotel for a while on my return, just long enough for me to ascertain there is no peril of contagion."

"Contagion?" I gasped.

"Indeed, contagion. For there is every chance for me to get infected with leprosy", he declared serenely. "Now, the train is not waiting for me and I mustn't disappoint young Mr. Dodd. Good-bye, Kitty, and good success with your redecorations. !" he yelled, yanking open the door to the staircase.

"Coming, Mr. Holmes!"

He was about to descend the stairs, when suddenly I realized the full meaning of his words, and hastened after him in great agitation. "No, Holmes, you mustn't!"

"Mustn't what?" he returned, never halting on his way downstairs.

"You mustn't expose yourself ter danger! What d'ye intend ter do, seek the company of a terminal ill person?"

"I assure you every precaution has been taken to spare you the fate of a leper's widow. One cannot, however, know how things may fall into place."

"Oh, pray be careful!" I seized him by the arm and finally he stopped, cocking his head with an inquisitive smile.

"You need not concern yourself, my dear. It is my habit to be most careful in all I undertake."

"Yes – yes, but I know I shall not be easy in my mind until you've come back!"

"That is very kind of you, though quite unnecessary. Ah, !"

The landlady came scuttling through the hallway bringing his packed suitcase. "Thank you, my dear."

"The cab is waiting, Mr. Holmes!"

"Yes, I shall be going. Adieu, ladies both!"

"Mr. 'olmes…" I scurried past , but he had already opened the door and stepped out into the dense, milky haze of Baker Street.

oooOOOooo

My work in the house occupied me for another day and a half, and then I just sat with my hands in my lap, waiting for a message the exasperating man had got himself infected with the incurable disease. It was maddening. Why was I of all wives cursed with such a twit of an irresponsible, never-maturing husband? I made a resolution. Waiting and staring at the tapestry that was no longer pea-coloured, but striped crimson and white with vertical strings of small pale golden _fleurs de lis_, would eventually mean nothing but a trial on my nerves. And furthermore, he had asked me to take refuge elsewhere for a while, so my time would be spent more wisely in doing what I knew I had to, anyway, although I had put it up for a couple of weeks now.

Without a doubt, my sister Annie would have heard of my marriage by now, and in her indignation had neglected to make contact. Not that we kept a lot of contact anyway, but certain events necessitate certain concessions. And I had not seen the children in a while. If my calculations were correct, the little boy was sure to be out of his swaddling clothes, and the girls old enough to attend public school – but of course I knew what Annie thought of education for girls.

Her husband, Graham, had been out of work when last we had met, and I laid ten against one he still was. Graham never succeeded in anything save reproducing and getting drunk, but in this he did excellently. Probably Annie was pregnant yet again, I had barely ever known her to be in any other state these past five years. If the fertility were running in the family, I should be able to become pregnant in no time, I thought bitterly.

And then, for the first time, the thought fully struck me that Holmes and I would be having a child. That was the object of our marriage. It would happen, not immediately, perhaps not for some time to come, but in the end it inevitably would. The idea took possession of me, it became a fascination. If I had ever before contemplated motherhood, it had not gone beyond a dim conception of little red haired boys and girls, running and shouting through the house like Annie's children did. In my current pre-parental stupor, however, I could see quite a different sort of child, and most importantly, one child only.

I saw a dark, glossy haired boy in a velvet suit, earnestly stooping over an opened book, the overpowering threat of a puerile intellectual monstrosity. Good heavens! Holmes was too different – too different. What if I bore a child that featured no trace of me, and that would be his entirely? A child of the bargain? A child I could not love?

Bye and bye, the comical side of my apprehension came seeping through to me and I burst into laughter with heartfelt relief about these foolish thoughts. Holmes could hardly influence the outcome of our union, he was not a sorcerer after all. The child might not turn out at all to his purpose, and perhaps I could have it to myself….at least partially. Anyway, there was no need for me to be scared of the creature of my imagination. If such a child existed, it was to be pitied rather than feared.

"Poor li'le nipper", I murmured grimly, getting up and crossing the room. "But do not make yerself uneasy, it may not come to that. Your father might decide ter allay his thirst fer knowledge with the inhalation o' leprosy germs."

Opening the left drawer, I took out Watson's parchment and the ink-bottle. Sharpening my pencil with a clasp knife, I pondered the phrasing of my letter. It would, and that was as yet the only certainty about it, commence with: "Dearest Annie…"

**Hi there!**

**Yeeees…so much for the Blanched soldier. I think you have noticed that Kitty is walking on thin ice here. She might have been on the verge of trying to– but we'll come back to that at some later point in the story.^^**

**Uh, I apologize for missing proper names. Sometimes fanfictionnet simply removes them, leaving a gap in between words (for what purpose? I've no idea). It does not happen too often, but last chapter it was extreme, so sorry for that. **

**Cockney:**

**Nipper – young boy**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter thirteen: Annie & Fanny

4th May 1887

"Yer so fin! Yuck!"

I scanned Annie from head to toes. She had ever been the chunky sort, but recently her pads had grown into a paunch, her corpulence into obesity. In comparison to her, pretty much everybody would look like a bony hag.

"Good day t'ya, too", I returned, trying to put as little irony as possible into my words. "By the way, I'm not thin, jus' because God hain't neglected ter give me a waist."

"Alroigh, le's get that straight." Her eyes sent angry sparkles at me, and deep inside the house, I could hear a child crying. "In case ya wants ter come in an' stay in, ya 'ave ter keep yer attitudes down an' not pretend like yer mudder reincarnate. Understand me?"

"Aye", I grumbled impatiently.

"Good. Jus' because ya awready scairt off yer hubby – "

"Hey! I hain't scared 'im off, it's jus'…."

"Read 'bout yer marriage in the papers", she interrupted me. "Ya might at least 'ave told me, I'm yer sister after all."

"Yes, I'm sorry."

"It's not loike it's o' any interest ter me. I ne'er cared 'bout the beds ya keeps jumpin' into. S'ppose 'e's some kind o' conceited painting feller who don't 'ave enough ter pay 'is rent. Anyway – "

At that point, two little girls appeared in the door behind Annie. "Mudder!Mudder!" the younger one squealed.

"Shut yer bleedin' mauf", Annie huffed. "There, tha's yer Aunt Cathy. Don't think ya can remember 'er mug, long as she hain't shown it 'ereabouts."

"Hello, girls", I said with a smile, but the little brat paid me no heed, continuing to tug on her mother's sleeve. "Mudder, me best doll's dress is torn! It's _torn_!"

"Will ya finally hold yer box!" Annie roared, roughly liberating her arm from the child's grasp.

"Fanny's done it!" the child wailed, pointing at the older girl accusingly, whose lower lip trembled. Annie gave Fanny a smacking slap in the face.

"You goddamn lump. C'mon Susan, go to the kitchen an' get yer stuff outta the way. I wanna prepare tea…" She stamped off, drawing Susan with her. Obviously she had momentarily forgotten my presence, for I was left alone with Fanny, who wept more violently than ever.

"There, there…" I said gently, kneeling down and wiping her face with my handkerchief. "Don't take it to heart too much. Ya knows yer mother – she don't mean it, not re'lly."

"She h-hates me!" Fanny sniffled defiantly. "I always get the most beastly treatment. Jus' because – "

"Because of what?" I asked quickly.

She shrugged her narrow shoulders. "I dunno."

She continued to weep. With concern and consternation, I observed her resemblance to my late mother. The beautiful young face was framed by copper locks, tumbling down her back, still open as they were. Fanny could be no more than eleven or twelve, but already her personality had started to sharpen – to menace.

"Tha's a ginger hanky", she remarked when her tears subsided at last. "Looks different from mudder's."

"Well – no two handkerchiefs look exactly alike, I presume."

"Nah – but yers is so pretty." She gazed at the little lace-lined piece of tissue admiringly. "It smells so good."

"Which is more than I could say o' yer rooms", I replied, getting up again and wrinkling my nose. "What did yer do, cook a field o' cabbage an' afterwards burn a bucket o' milk?"

I loathed both smells with all my heart. They recalled to me my childhood home, our poverty, our destitution. Annie's whole place recalled it to me.

"Eh? I ain't smelling anything."

"Yes, I can believe that. Be so kind an' taike me bag to the bedroom, will ye? Ya does not want ter come near yer mother anyways, I expect."

"Sure thing, Aunt Cathy." She dabbed her eyes with a filthy sleeve and tried to smile. "Yer hanky – "

"Keep it", I returned, going to look for Annie in the kitchen.

oooOOOooo

As I somehow had feared and expected, the place was stacked with dirty plates and last meal's mushed remnants. The large amount of burnt coal in the furnace was choking every small flame that was so audacious as to flicker up from the embers. A baby in its cot screamed its lungs out. Unwashed laundry heaped in the corner.

"Watch out, it's hot!" Annie swung the teapot past me, spilt some of the boiling water over her stocking-clad feet and chimed in with the infant's cries.

"Le' me help ya…"I hurried to her side, but she waved me away angrily.

"Ya don't know how ter do it. Take care o' the babe, if ya wants ter be useful. Put on me apron, or that fine dress o' yers is goin' ter be messed up."

I did as she told me, tying the apron around my waist and lifting the little boy from his cot. He did not cease screaming and his head had grown quite red by now.

"'e's the right sort", Annie puffed, diving her now bare feet into a bucket of cold water, "like me eldest. Strong charrickter, or I'll be damned."

I looked down at the tiny human being in my arms. Despite the fact that apparently his swaddling clothed had not been changed for a while and milk-spittle was dropping down on my sleeve, he was – in a way – a cutie. His eyes barely could be seen in the grimacing little face, but his small mouth enraptured me, and the diminutive rowing fists were delightful.

"Where's his father?" I enquired, touching the convulsed angry mouth with a probing finger.

"Gone off wiv a barmaid", Annie admitted. "Won't taike 'im long ter come creepin' back though. We've been there before."

I turned around in surprise. "I di'n't know."

"Wouldn't 'ave 'appened if 'e weren't such a goddamn boozer", Annie explained, sounding somewhat short of breath, "an' if I weren't too much occupied 'ere ter look after 'im as well."

I laid back the little bundle of a boy who had eventually calmed down a little. Annie was sitting by the table, chin resting on her fisted hands. She looked tired – exhausted.

"Annie – " I approached her, but she re-raised her head almost before I had spoken.

"I'm goin' ter pour out our tea", she declared. "Wanna lump o' sugar wiv it or a spoonful o' honey?"

oooOOOooo

Late in the evening, when I had long crawled beneath my sheets, I heard the door open and rolled around gruffly, supposing Annie had come in to summon me. It was only Fanny, though.

"D'ye know the hour, dearie?"

"Sorry, Aunt Cathy. It's jus' – Susan's sleeping in the double bed wiv mudder, an' I don't want ter be alone in the maid's chamber."

"I see. Come on in then, I'm moving over."

Lifting the quilted blanket for the girl to slip underneath, I sat up against the headpiece of the bed. "Uuuuh, that yer plates? They're cold."

"I can't help it. They're never re'lly warm. I tried ever'thing, hot-wa'er bottle, stockings double 'n triple…"

"Well, use a cherry stone bag. It does wonders on me plates. Just hang it in front o' the fireplace fer twenty minutes an' it's good as gold."

"I'll give it a try."

She scrambled a little so as to get into a cuddling position against my bosom. "I say, ya re'lly smells terrific, Aunt Cathy. Is it true yer a real lady now?"

"Who says so?"

"Mudder does. She says ya married a gen'leman an' thus became a lady."

"It's not as easy as that, honey. Somehow, we always remain what we are, regardless o' what we do ter change that. In the end, ya can always tell where a lad or lass comes from: By the way they dress, walk, talk…"

"Well, I think ye're dressing wonderfully." Her little hands were playing with the silk ribbons of Madame Lefèvres Parisian nightdress. I had put it on for the first time, since it was, though lovely, alarmingly lacking in length, and I had not dared to wear it in Baker Street, lest Mr. Holmes should find me in this immodest attire. Fanny sighed.

"I'm often wondering what it will be like ter be a grown-up lady an' ter be married. But maybe I shan't marry at all. There don't seem ter be much sense in it, after all, if 'usbands can jus' go off an' leave their wife an' kids."

"Ya means…like yer daddy?" I asked cautiously.

"Not 'im especially. It 'appens all the time, I knows loads o' kids whose daddies got the drink an' are a-spanking them or running away wiv other ladies."

"Hum." I silently contemplated the hills and vales the blanket was moulded into by our bodies.

"Aunt Cathy?"

"Yes?"

"What's it like ter be married to a man? Is it nice?"

"Well, some o' it is an' some o' it ain't, like it is with ever'thing in life, I s'ppose."

"An' yer hubby? Is _'e_ nice?"

"Oh…" I tarried. "Um – so so. Yes, 'e's quite nice – sometimes, but 'e can get pretty angry, too, when 'e's dissatisfied wiv me, an' 'e often is."

Fanny frowned. "Tha's queer. 'e does not like yer, then?"

I chuckled quietly. "No, not too much, I'm afraid."

"Then why did 'e make ya 'is wife?" she wanted to know.

"Because…" I stopped. Mature as Fanny appeared to be, there were some things she did not yet understand. "Because it's good fer a man ter 'ave a wife. God Awmighty said so 'imself, an' 'e's a feller who's got 'is brass right, I daresay."

"But God can't know. 'e don't 'ave a wife."

"There ain't no goddesses. Tha's why."

The girl scratched her little red head. "P'raps 'e was jus' afraid ter taike out one o' 'is own ribs. It must give you a hell o' a pain."

"Probably", I agreed readily, for the theo-surgical details of the discussion were beginning to exceed my comprehension. "Listen, lovey, it's high time we got some sleep, for tomorrow we 'ave ter rise early an' go to church, an' afterwards at Sunday school, ya can ask the teacher about God's bachelorhood."

"But I ain't going ter Sunday school", Fanny argued, parting from me unwillingly and delving back beneath the blanket. "Mudder doesn't want us to."

"Really?" I yawned, snuggling deeper into my pillow. "Well, we'll 'ave ter do something about that soon. Turn off the light, hon…"

oooOOOooo

6th May 1887

Two days later, when I came down into the kitchen, Annie was busy bathing her baby boy, turning her back on me. Hearing the creak of the stairs beneath my feet, she called: "Two messages on the table fer you, Kit."

I entered, wiping my hair out of my face wearily and reaching for the sealed envelopes. One was without indication of sender, but the stamp – the Mauritius – did only allow one possible addresser. "Annie, 'ave a butcher's!" I squealed excitedly. "A letter from Jonathan!"

"Eh?" She almost dropped the baby into the tub, spinning around and snatching the envelope from my hand. I certainly would not have given up a letter from our seafaring brother without offer of resistance, had not my eyes this very instant caught sight of the second envelope. I could see it had been sent to Baker Street, and redirected to my current dwelling from thence, probably by Mrs. Hudson. Eagerly picking it up and ripping it open, I found a telegram from Tuxbury Park, near Bedford.

It said: "Case solved. Leper no leper. Danger inexistent. Shall arrive at London tomorrow by 11.30. Holmes."

A deep sigh escaped me. I had to make an effort, in fact, to listen to Annie's crude recital of Jonathan's letter from the Isle of Mauritius. Apparently, he had been appointed second in command on his vessel, which after a short stay would be bound for the Cape of Good Hope and Johannesburg. My brother was infinitely dear to me, but he had not been in conjectured danger of death, and when Annie started a little jig, little did she suspect why I joined her with verve.

**Cockney: mug – face**

**Plates – feet**

**Have a butcher's! – Look!**

**To have one's brass right – to have a notion of something, to be informed correctly**

**Hey!**

**Okay, first of I should say I've been extremely unwilling to write this chapter about Annie and her domestic chaos, because I find the topic quite a depressing one. Nevertheless, I am doing so to demonstrate what Kitty has saved herself in marrying Holmes. Though some of her friends are better off, the conditions of most of her people are not funny at all. She can call herself lucky to have gone up in the world and left her childhood environment behind. **

**Yeah Christmas approaching! Dean Martin and Doris Day lilting through the house! Hoping for some snow! Hugging all of you!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Exeedingly obliged

5th May 1887

„Kitty! You're back." He opened the door for me, his eyebrows arching in mild surprise.

"So are you. Save an' sound in body, if not in mind."

He ignored my brashness. "Your step has altered."

"Me step 'as altered? P'raps tha's because o' the suitcase I'm pulling up the apples…" – he hurried to assist me – "or p'raps I'm creepin' an' crawlin' because me back 'as broken under me sisters's shopping….or p'raps I'm humpin' because o' the bucket one o' 'er sons dropped on me toes…"

"I gather your stay was not an altogether enjoyable one?"

"However did ye deduce tha'? Donkeys will pass before I'll come near 'er again. Siblings are so much barney. This whole jealousy and resentment and rivalry thing…"

He remained silent and I presumed he was just not too much interested in my family conditions, for which I could not blame him. In order to give him a chance of detailing his own adventures, I enquired: "But how was yer singular experience? What did ye mean, the leper was no leper?"

"The man suffers from a kind of pseudo-leprosy, which causes all the symptoms of the disease, like patchy blanched skin, without being serious itself. Sir James Saunders, whom I summoned with that telegram, is a specialist in dermatology. He helped us persuade the patient there was no actual danger."

I shook my head. "'e must 'ave been terrifically relieved – felt a new born man."

"I daresay. It was not easy to advance to him, for he was well protected by his family, but in the end it has been worth the trouble. Voilà!" He pushed open my door, lowering the suitcase to the floor.

"Thank you quite much." I maladroitly scrambled past it into my chamber. "And, Mr.'olmes?"

"Kitty?"

"I'm glad you're not infected wiv leprosy", I said smilingly.

"It is charming of you to say so. I must admit to being quite glad myself."

"Oh, and – "

I had caught sight of the forgotten Milton volume, lying in my rocking chair. "I'd like ter return this. Very sorry to 'ave browsed yer book closet, but Mrs.'udson suggested it an' I thought it might look queer if I told 'er – "

"Certainly. You have done well", he replied. His hand was reaching out as I wanted to return the book, but then he swiftly retracted it. "Oh, that. You may keep it, I'm not reading for pleasure nowadays."

"Ya ain't…"

"No", he returned firmly. "Now pray hurry up if you wish to unpack and fresh up a little before dinner."

"Right", I answered hesitantly, cradling the book to my bosom. "Oh! Halloa, Ginger Jack!"

A wild clatter of fleeting feet on the stairs was the last thing I heard from Mr. Holmes that afternoon.

oooOOOooo

Considering the relatively short time he had been at home, Holmes had already achieved the most confounding mess in his room, the floor was littered with newspapers of every sort and shape. Some were attached to a newspaper holder, some were widespread over diverse pieces of furniture, and some were simply crumpled up in the corner. Not a little piqued, I waited until Mrs. Hudson had served our dinner before I made a comment.

"You seem ter 'ave worked through a whole bunch o' newspapers terday", I remarked, drawing out a _Globe_ edition from beneath the sauce boat. "P'raps ya could provide me with an overview, for I hain't seen one in days. Annie don't seem ter 'ave a single printed letter at 'er place. "

"Certainly. A Mr. Sinclair of Guilford Street advertised a special treatment against cramped muscles in the _Observer_. Mr. and Mrs. Francis Bailey are expressing their thanks for the condolences their carriage accident met with. Today's _Echo _announces the death of Mrs. Catherine King, widow of Sir William Wellington", he rattled off like a pupil racing through a poem learned by heart.

"I ain't enquiring for the society news", I returned smilingly, "I was rather thinking o' trouble in the colonies, the preparations for Her Majesty's Golden Jubilee, that sort o' thing."

"Oh!" He waved me away depreciatingly. "I forget. It is my custom to concentrate on the agony columns, especially when I've been away for some time. They often provide me with the set off to a new case or clues as to the whereabouts of my particular charges."

"Yer charges?"

"So to say." He rose, and lightly tugged on the drapery that covered his black board. It came down to the floor in a rush. "There", he remarked, indicating a chalk-drawn map of Western Europe, with small colourful magnets distributed all over it. "The red one is Marlowe – a despicable rascal. He slaughtered his wife and children in a drunken frenzy and escaped to the Continent in the dead of night. The yellow and green ones are Nervo and Gibbons – bad customers too, and slippery as so many fish. But this one is the worst."

He pointed at a little black magnet. "Count Negretto Sylvius. He is up to every trick – false coining, cheating at cards, bank robbery, forgery of cheques. According to my information, he is whiling away the spring at Monte Carlo, and I should say the farer he stays away from London, the better for the Londoners."

"How d'ye keep track o' their movements?" I asked with interest when he had resumed his seat.

"Oh, I do have my agents here and there. Some are in the official force, and others are just ordinary people like the young Street Arabs, my trustworthy ally old Mr. Sherman and his four-legged companions, or your own friend Shinwell Johnson. It is more difficult with rogues abroad, but I usually employ private detective agencies myself to have them observed."

"An' how d'ye know which criminals are worthwhile to observe?"

"I'm keeping an eye on those with potential, and potential is to be recognized from their earlier delinquencies. This is of course where my personal judgement comes in, and it has rarely failed me as yet. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!"

The landlady came bustling in, collecting our dishes from the table and arranging them in a pile on her dinner tray.

"You will have to have a word with the butcher, my dear. The cutlets were hard bitten like so many leather soles. They did not conform to my idea of _scaloppine lemon_ at all."

Mrs. Hudson seemed to be mortally offended. I gave my husband a glance of warning, but he continued: "And if you should find a free moment tomorrow, you might like to tidy up a little in here. It does not look nice, does it, with all those newspapers on the floor?"

"Sir", Mrs. Hudson murmured, a little tersely.

I chuckled. "It's all right, Mrs. 'udson. Mr. 'olmes will find it'll do 'im a hell o' good ter do it 'imself. Thank you for the lovely dinner."

"You're stabbing me in the back, Kitty!" Mr. Holmes complained, when the landlady had cleared the field, triumphantly. "In case you women should form an alliance, I shall have nothing more to say in this house!"

"Oh, don't feel so sorry for yourself. I jus' di'n't want the old lady ter 'ave ter do it. _I_ shall tidy up, an' ya can sit 'ere an' smoke yer cigarette."

He lowered his eyes, and his long, white lids twitched lightly. "How did you know I was going to smoke?"

"Really, Mr. 'olmes. One does not 'ave ter be a detective to know that."

"No", he muttered pensively, reaching over for his case and matches. He sat in silence, one hand resting on his pin-striped knee, the other holding the cigarette, from which blue smoke was curling up towards the ceiling.

_Flasback…_

_The flame-like young woman on his couch proudly and defiantly met his glance. "If I were to stand before 'er and tell 'er how 'e used me – "_

"_Would you do this?" he coolly interrupted her._

_She gave a little mirthless laugh and continued staring ahead. "Would I – would I not?"_

"_It might be worth the try", he remarked, turning Watson's way._

"_I'll lay he di'n't tell 'er all, Sir", she said with her voice choked by icy cold ire. _

_He slowly turned back to her. "All?"_

"_He collected me", she whispered. "He collects women! I was an artist's model – a respectable artist's model!" again she raised her chin to him defiantly, as though she were daring him to contradict. _

"_Of course, you sat for that painting in his study", he returned blithely, not responding to her provocative tone._

"_You've been to Kingston", she continued, still expressing her immense anger and hurt in a faraway gaze from her light, watery grey eyes. "Then you have seen all his crocks. Women and china! – were his twin passions. Gruner commissioned that painting. And afterwards – and after - " she gulped, suddenly looking very small and vulnerable. Drawing a shuddering breath, she pressed her eyes shut for the fraction of a second. "Well", she breathed, licking her dry lips, "Let's jus' say I can never work again…never…never."_

_He felt immeasurable compassion for her distress, even though he had no concrete idea what Gruner might have done to inspire such fury and loathing in her. It was just the way her rage was so cold….as if preserved in an icebox, months and months, until a chance of revenge presented itself. It was monstrous in a woman who was, as could be plainly seen, naturally warm hearted and passionate. What had that fellow done to her?_

"_I am…exceedingly obliged to you, Miss Winter" he said, aware of the soothing effect his deep voice could attain if he wished it. His eyes were fixed on the large grey orbs unwaveringly. Ice and fire mingled in them._

I went through the room, gathering the papers from the floor and roughly stacking them on the settee. It was very still. Only my feet were to be heard, the slight rustling of the papers, the ticking of the clock on the mantle, and Mr. Holmes' occasional inhalation of tobacco smoke.

"There!" I declared when I was done. "Ready."

"Thank you, Kitty!" he exclaimed, hesitating a second and then looking fully into my face. "Thank you", he repeated, a little softer.

"Yer welcome. I jus' 'ad ter be sure _somebody _would do it." I smiled and winked. "Good night, Mr. 'olmes."

He smiled likewise, and almost imperceptibly winked back. "Good night."

oooOOOooo

I was enormously glad about the turn our relationship had taken since the evening at Somerset House. Holmes was so much kinder and less impatient if I did anything wrong. Once or twice I really thought the see-saw of our mutual regard had outbalanced insofar that one could talk of friendship again. And this was something I was very much desirous of. Consequently, it pleased me to notice he was growing accustomed to my company and did not send me from his presence on every opportunity. In fact, I could have been reasonably happy in my marriage, had it not been for –

"Turn down the light, please."

I did his bidding and lay back, becoming the supposedly unfeeling puppet of his purpose once more. It had long become routine, everything between the brief, but piercing pain of penetration, and the white hands clutching into the pillow on either side of me when we had once again achieved our goal without major loss of face. All happened without the least effort on my part, I was utterly unresponsive, though my every fibre screamed for him to touch me in helpless frustration.

His climax was nothing more than the signal for departure. He left me almost instantly after having quickly and bashfully exercised his rights as a husband. I did not re-light the gas lamp any more. I simply lay there in the darkness, his cooled-off semen trickling down my thighs, just as hot salty tears trickled down my cheeks.

I felt rejected, degraded, angry. Why was he treating me so? Was it so very awful to have to associate with me in this manner? Wouldn't it be the most natural thing for a man and a woman to just – enjoy it, as far as that was possible? Yes, I had promised not to pester him with any kind of sentimentality, but this was hardly about sentiment, it was about my self-esteem.

I would not continue to let myself be neglected like this, I thought, angrily wiping the tears off my stained face. Something just had to happen about it, otherwise I was sure to succumb to a feeling of positive inferiority.

**Cockney:**

**Barney - trouble**

**There! Holmes **_**does**_** have feelings for her after all, for the possible skeptics among you. 1. Pity and . Not the most personal of sentiments perhaps, but they are proof enough for his sympathy…something to begin with. In the long run, they may be worth more than the sexual attraction Kitty wishes to exert - if she could only see it. What do you think is going to happen next?**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter fifteen: Bridge over troubled water

11th May 1887

„Kitty?"

Natasha's melancholic eyes met mine through the gap between door and frame. "Is that you?"

"O' course it's me, silly. Who else would there be? Le' me in."

She did what I asked extremely hesitantly. I cast a look around. The apartment was in a worse state than on my last visit and Natasha herself presented a desolate picture, her face more sallow than ever.

"I brought yer a fresh supply o' cigarettes", I declared business-like, wasting no time on enquiries after her well-being, since it was apparent she was _not _well. "An' a new set o' bedclothes. An' I guess yer could use a new tablecloth also", I remarked, wrinkling my nose and picking up the cloth for my examination. It reeked of tobacco and presented several unsightly burnt holes. "Now how is it darling? Have you eaten terday? Ya looks positively starved. When was the las' time ya left the 'ouse?"

"I didn't", Natasha's even, distant voice replied slowly. "My landlady looks after me. She also does my shopping."

"Tha' disreputable scarecrow?" I asked in disbelief. "Well, that accounts fer yer unhealthy looks. C'mon, 'ave a barf, ya can't go out loike this. We'll 'ave luncheon at the Café across the park."

"No…" she shook her head gently, but with a certain air of stubbornness. "I don't want to go out, Kitty. I don't wish to be seen."

"Oh, now please, ya can't lock up yerself in 'ere fer the rest o' yer days. Though they won't be many left if ya does not eat. Yer like me 'usband! It's terrible wiv you food-refusers. Ya 'ave no idea how hard it makes ever'thing fer people loike me."

I continued scolding her and the non-attendant Holmes while heating water in a kettle over the fire and preparing the necessary utensils next to the tub. "Ya really 'ave a lot in common. Monsieur ain't eating, and Monsieur ain't sleeping if 'e don't feel loike it. Complaining, tha's all ya depressive folks are good fer. The world is an ugly grey mess an' always the others are ter blame, make no mistaike. Yes, yes, I knows it. An' then ya locks yerselves away from the ugly world, ya pretends being indifferent 'bout ever'thing though I can 'ear yer cry on yer inside. Yeh, I 'ear it! An' ya feels it yerself, an' killing yer senses wiv poison is no good neither!"

Natasha guiltily lowered the cigarette she had been about to light.

"Now come over 'ere, 'elp me wiv the kettle. Tha's right. Get outta them rags."

Natasha followed my instructions with her customary phlegmatic complacency. Like always, she was dressed in little more than a few layers of underwear. She did not bother to lay it aside, but just dropped the things to the ground before she dived her great toe into the tub and, finding it not too steaming hot, stepped in completely and delved her long-limbed, gracious figure in the water.

"Wonderful", she sighed contently. I gave no reply. Picking up the items she had so carelessly scattered over the floor and folding them over, I pensively scrutinized the flimsy, lacy falderal, corselet, shift dress, suspender belt. A thought had entered my head.

"I thought it'd do yer good", I returned, somewhat belatedly, neatly putting the things away. "Now let yer barnet down o'er the brim, so that I can comb it. Tha's good. Ain't ya ashamed o' yerself ter neglect yerself so much? Look at them bird's nests, them ruined nails! Ya don't even 'ave a file, do ye? Well, but I can pluck yer brows, tha's something. Don't yammer! Beauty 'as its price."

She finally yielded to me and relaxed, her long, shapely head quietly resting on the brim of the tub.

"I say", she smiled. "You are a drill sergeant. Did your mother educate you so that you would be or is it your marriage that has given you such authority?"

I laughed heartily. "Neither, honey. My mother wanted me ter be an artist's model loike 'erself, so I became 'un. An' me marriage is not apt ter give me confidence in me – I'm shying away from me hubby on every occasion."

She chuckled softly into the water that reached up to her chin.

"Yes", I affirmed, "on every occasion. Ya wouldn't believe it. I'm always trying ter remain firm, but when 'e gives me tha' look of 'is I'm wincing an' giving in loike a bleedin' coward."

Drawing the comb through her dark wavy hair, I continued: "I s'ppose it's me friends that teach me ter assert meself. They're all men, ya sees."

I stopped and frowned for a moment. "They're rough…impudent…but wiv men, it's easy. They don't like you, they tell you straight forward like. Women are sly cats. That other night…"

I recounted my experience at Somerset House to her while we finished her toilet, and she responded gently and sympathetically, being familiar with the breed of people I described to her. I had got her so far as to wearing a costume and a neat little pill box hat on her plaited bun coiffure, when she was making trouble again. The weather might change. We might get into a shower of rain. I assured her that on such a lovely day, this was as likely as a meteorite coming down on the capital, but still she objected.

"I don't want to go. No, no. The hat looks wrong, it needs freshening up. I don't want people to see me with such a dusty old hat."

"Yer titfer's allroigh, trust me", I replied, getting impatient. "C'mon. We're not going far. Jus' across the park. They got wonderful scones with jam at that Café. Yer so fond o' jam, ain't ye? Jus' fer an hour, dearie. We're back presently."

Giving in uneasily, she allowed me to link arms with her and to lead her out into the street. The traffic scared her quite a bit, but as soon as we were in the park, she calmed down a little. It really was a wonderful day. The sun shone brightly, but my new green parasol granted us sufficient shade. Little white clouds floated across the sky, and the grass was so succulent and green it almost seemed artificial.

We passed some children and an organ grinder, and Natasha was charmed, because she had not heard either laughter or music for a long time. "That little one looks like Porkey", she said quietly, turning her head a bit after the rosy-cheeked young lad. "You can see he's going to have a mind of his own, and that he'll be able to make himself heard. I assume you owe much of your authority to Porkey, Kitty."

"Porkey…" I furrowed my brow thoughtfully.

"Yes, what of him?"

"Nothing really. It's just that I hain't had word from 'im fer some days. Tha's unusual."

"Let us hope he is fine."

We had reached the duck pond and crossed the bridge to the far end. I peered over the water, back to where the organ grinder stood, surrounded by the band of children. I really hoped nothing had happened to Porkey. As a rule he came to the _Cock&Horse_ daily, but I had not been there lately. Still, it was unlike him not to at least drop a line, if he did not call on me in person. Surely, if something were the matter, Ernie or one of the other fellows would have let me know?

I suddenly recalled Natasha's presence. She had been feeding the ducks, but now she simply stood by the fringe of the pond, staring into the dark water motionlessly. Two ladies passed her by quite closely, but she did not move a muscle, just stood there and gazed down into the pool.

"I think ya 'ad better rest fer a bit", I said, gently conducting her to a bench by the pathway and sitting down with her. We did not talk for a while, until suddenly, the ducks were roused by something beyond my perception, and fluttered across the surface of the water, to the other side of the pond. The sound distinctly disturbed Natasha, she flinched and looked at me with large, frightened eyes.

"It' allroigh", I said kindly, patting her hand. "It's only the ducks, dear."

"Yes – yes, but…" she seemed to strive for words in vain, "b-but where are we? Why am I not at home?" She fully turned her pale face at me. ""Who are _you_?"

An inconceivable coldness captured my heart in its icy grip. Shocked as I was, I could do nothing but return the gaze from her scared, dilated pupils as she repeated, again and again, her voice raised: "Where am I? Where am I? I want to go home! Bring me home!"

The passers-by were turning their heads, curiously glancing our way. An elderly man tutted disapprovingly, as though we were deliberately scandalizing. I did not pay attention to him.

"I don't know you!" Natasha stammered, tears welling up in her clear blue eyes. "I want to go home!"

"It's fine. We'll go 'ome now", I whispered soothingly, taking her arm and raising her from the seat. "There's no need to be afraid, darling."

Followed by the inquisitiveness of complete strangers, I led her back the way we had come, but she would not stop crying. "Where am I? Oh, where am I?" she sobbed all along, and I laid my arm around her shoulders, taking her hand with the other and pressing it comfortingly.

We were still attracting attention. "Have a butcher's! The madwoman!" one of the children chanted, before its mother appeared out of nowhere, taking it away hurriedly. People were clearing the path in front of us, like flushed butterflies taking flight left and right.

I tried to stop and dry Natasha's tears with my handkerchief, but she would not let me touch her face, repeatedly proclaiming that she did not know me. There was little I could do. In private, I had apprehended something like this to happen for some time now. She had been so distant recently, and of course, had lost touch with reality to some degree in her reclusiveness. But never until now had her disorientation broken through in this manner.

What action should I take? I had no clue. Thus we proceeded on our way home, I and my deranged friend, my friend that did not know me.

**Ho, Ho, Ho….**

**Sorry - I've been sick and the house's completely buried in snow - that's why I didn't make it so far.**

**Hum…at least this is one trouble Holmes has spared Kitty so far. Of course, all was not for the best regarding the possibilities of treatment at that time, and worse, mental derangement was to some extent tabooed, so even a level-headed, practical girl like Kitty would have few ideas how to produce relief, apart from being there for Natasha…a bridge over troubled water, as it were.**

**Merry Christmas, by the way! I had Christmas yesterday, but I learn most of you weird people are celebrating the 25****th **

**;-) **

**Hope to update before the New Year!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter sixteen: Lead us not into temptation…

12th May 1887

"Eh! Miss Kitty!" I turned around with surprise, a grin broadening on my face. Al Whittaker was leaning against the door of his room, arms folded in front of his chest, a responding grin gleaming through the dusk. "That you? I thought as much. Burglin' old Ernie, are we?"

"Sure thing. Nah, I'm jus' looking fer 'im. Any idea where 'e might 'ave gone?"

"No idear, Miss Kitty. His woman's gone out with the kids, an' he's Gawd knows where. Nobody in here but old Al an' Pretty Kitty."

"Huh, now I'm scairt!"

He gave a short, rough laugh. "Don't have to be. Say, wanna have a look at what some Johnny sent me today?"

"What, then?"

"C'm in." he went into the shady, not too clean room, and I followed him curiously. The walls of Mr. Whittaker's abode were densely plastered with American pin-up girls. There were heaps of clothing lying about and in the corner beneath a table with a distillatory, a large tied-up carton was to be discerned.

"I'll grant you it's a treasure, Kit. Wait till I opened it…" He dragged out the carton from underneath the table with a loud shuffling sound and untied the strings. The carton proved to contain a wooden box with six bottles, all carefully wrapped in straw. Quite against my will, my lips formed for an admiring whistle. "Ya better be careful. Ernie would turn yer outta the house if 'e knew ya 'ave yer own alcohol up 'ere."

"Well, he don't need to know about the sperrit. Don't fret. Wanna try it, gal?" he winked conspiringly and I giggled a little.

"Right, a very li'le bit." He started to prepare our drinks while I inspected the pin-ups inquisitively. "Ye're staying longer 'ere in the UK, Mr. Whittaker?"

"Ah, it all depends. They's nothing like home of course, but I like it here. Will stay a while before I return to my people, I figger. Sure, the missus is OK, and all a-waiting, make no mistake. And the kids – I git lots of them. But a man wants some time for himself, you know, a holiday from his family."

"To spend it a-drinking?" I asked mischievously, accepting my glass from him.

"Drink is fine at home. It's the purty gals you git here."

"Oh, nonsense…" still grinning, I sipped on my glass. "Dammit, that stuff's bleedin' good. It's awmost…"

"Hush!" He raised his hand to his ear, whereupon he swiftly set down his glass and forced me to give up mine, though I protested vehemently. Conducting me to the door, he chimed in with my suppressed chuckling at the shared secret. "There, close the door."

"Aye…" I obeyed, suddenly hearing the landlord's step in the staircase. When Ernie entered, he found us as though we were just having an innocent conversation, and Al Whittaker greeted him with his gleaming American smile.

"Alright there, buddy? Just had a little chat with Pretty Kitty…though I learn it's you she wanna talk to."

"Ernie", I began, and Whittaker withdrew. "What's it wiv Porkey? I hain't heard from him in a week's time. I'm getting' anxious."

Ernie McAlester rolled his eyes. "It's the old game, Kit. Porkey's stuck. Ran after tha' hussy up Soho, in the music hall, an' she ain't a good sort. Want ter do something about it, 'ave me blessings."

"Aye", I mumbled pensively. "P'raps I should." Porkey's love affairs had a tendency of starting harmlessly enough, but building up like a towering wave until it inevitably came all down on him, because the minx in question usually was miles away.

"'e's up there all day an' all night. A bloomin' fool, that's what 'e is."

"Not a dancer?" I asked, hoping for an exception to the rule in vain.

"Aye. Can-can. Ya knows, they throw up their skirts an' their legs an'…"

"Yes, thank you, I can imagine the rest."

"There. I'd go meself, but me woman don't like it – "

"She's not even 'ere."

"Yeh – but the business don't like me absence neither! Eh! Ask Mr. Whittaker! Capital fellow. Did yer know 'e started as a butcher's boy? All very modest in the beginning – an' now 'e 'as 'is own small business. Tha's the spirit!"

"Great", I interposed, for Mr. Whittaker's career did not overly interest me. "Ripping. I take it I'll 'ave ter do it after all?"

"Would ya?" The hope in his voice was not too confident. "That'd be dashed good of ya, Kitty…appreciate it…"

"Save it. Where can I find 'em?"

"Wait, I'll scribble down the address. Ah! You 'ad better get a grip an' go there at once. It's a nasty place after night fall, I'm told…"

"I'm not goin' now an' I'm not goin' ternight", I replied impatiently. "I'm cracking tired." That was quite an understatement. I felt as though I were going to swoon. All of a sudden.

"Kit? Yer alroigh?" The concern in Ernie's voice was genuine.

"Fine", I gasped. "Jus'…I think I 'ad better go 'ome 'an lay down a li'le."

"Right. I'd bring yer, but…awfully busy…p'raps Whittaker…"

"No – really." I shook my head vigorously. "That won't be necessary. I shall be fine in a minute."

oooOOOooo

I was, in fact. By the time I reached Baker Street, my sickly faintness had worn off, I was fully recovered. It was strange and inexplicable to me, but my thoughts did not dwell on it too long, for I had plans to carry out tonight.

My hurt and angry pride had got the better of me, and I was determined to make Mr. Holmes see my attractiveness as a woman – to acknowledge it. I had planned everything. The vision of him, creeping at my feet and begging for the touch of my hand, filled me with deep satisfaction. We would see just how long it would take me to tear down his wards, to reduce him to the whining state of his _alter ego_ my imagination had conjured! Good heavens, he was but human. How hard could it be?

I had picked tonight's night for my enterprise because he had been tied up in business on the previous evening, and was sure to step up as soon as he saw himself able to. He was already at home, Mrs. Hudson had told me this, but I had deliberately neglected to look in on him. He would have heard my tread on the steps, he would know I had come. It was now only a matter of time…

oooOOOooo

I had sat in the rocking chair by the fire for an hour, shivering despite the stuffy warmth the flames emanated. My fingers incessantly moved over my sewing work, though the seams became more and more sloppy and inaccurate. Would he come, after all? Had I chosen the wrong day? Should I go to bed?

Hearkening into the night, I let my fingers slow down. Did I perceive the heavy tread of a man's feet outside my door? I held my breath and yet winced when his knock became audible. Like always, he did not abide a formal invitation before entering the chamber. My fingers lightly dug into my work when I observed his mute confusion at the change of scenario.

Hitherto, I had invariably waited for him in bed, dressed in my nightshirt, the light dimmed. Not so today. He found me up, illuminated by the fire, and almost too sparsely dressed even for the eyes of my husband to behold. I was wearing the very nightdress I had never been sufficiently audacious to put on, but now it served my purpose admirably. It was nontransparent and proper enough about the neckline, but stopped at mid-thigh, revealing my suspenders and champagne silk stockings. He scrutinized me briefly, with an air of incredulity and growing discomfort. I smiled sweetly, pretending there was nothing amiss.

"Jus' a second, please. I'm finished presently."

He inhaled sharply. Talking had certainly never been part of our ritual before. I bent over my work, watching him from beneath my lashes. He lingered for an instant, as if unsure whether or not to proceed under the given circumstances, but finally he resolved to cross over to the bed. I waited one more moment, but he would not start disrobing. Perhaps it would require my close proximity to induce the desire to do so in him.

Putting away my sewing and getting up, I advanced slowly, making sure my hips were swaying teasingly. I came to a halt just in front of him, and with an impish smile raised my hand so as to place it on his chest, but he flinched intuitively. Still smiling, though now somewhat more innocent, I retreated a little. It would not do to frighten him.

"My new nightdress", I said quietly. "Do you like it? I bought it at my tailor's, to thank her for her efforts. It's what they are wearing in Paris these days. The fabric is very fine cambric, see? It's deliciously…light."

I lowered myself onto the bed and playfully curled up with one leg bent, the other outstretched on the scarlet counterpane. He watched me without a single word, breathlessly. _It's working out! _I cheered inwardly. Passing my hand down to my bosom, I found one of the silk ribbons and lazily twirled it around my finger.

"It's much more comfortable than an ordinary nightshirt. The material is _very_ delicate. Isn't it a wonderful thought to imagine all of those lovely French girls who have sown and stitched on this little piece of tissue? The fabrication of such a garment surely requires particularly gentle hands… I can sense their devoted tenderness as I put it on." Letting go off the ribbons and nestling up against the pillows, I sighed:" Yes, it certainly is a most agreeable garb to wear. It allows your legs a much greater freedom, too…"

With every word I uttered, my excitement augmented. Shivers passed down my spine, and I looked at him expectantly. His eyes were very dark, his lips slightly parted. _I've almost made it_, I thought. _I made you WANT it. Next thing, I'll make you DO it. _I was positively nauseous with triumph. Just a little further…

My hands were now stroking over the tingling naked flesh of my thighs, my hips slightly squirming in anticipation. My voice had become a low murmur, like the purring of a kitten in heat. "But of course, we must get rid of those stockings. Though I have to admit they feel very pleasant on my skin…." I unhooked the suspenders first on one side, then on the other. "They are so _smooth_, Mr. Holmes - like water swashing around my calves."

I bent over my right knee and rolled down the stocking with a slowness which, quite annoying to me, had to be virtually maddening to him. I felt him watch me. I imagined his eyes burn into my exposed skin with barely controllable avarice. Issuing a soft, surprised sound of _"Ouuuh!", _I dropped the silken stocking over the side of the bed to the floor, out of my reach.

It was now the turn of the second leg. The tips of my fingers caressed the sleek material. "It really is the most wonderful sensation, so soft and …slippery." I wetted my lips luxuriously. "I'm convinced you also like the touch of silk, Mr. Holmes. Do you want to feel just how soft it is?"

I realized he was standing very close to me. Within a heartbeat, I had seized his passive hand and guided it to my stocking-clad knee. "There…", I breathed, "touch…."

The hand was retracted in the fraction of a second, and it was accompanied by an irate hiss. In shock, I turned to see his face had transformed into an angry white mask, glaring at me with a wrath bordering on hatred. His lips were compressed, his eyes narrowed, a steep crease forming between his brows, and he had blanched for yet some more shades. I could see he wanted to speak and was making efforts, and I waited with a palpitating heart, but the only thing he could utter was a further hiss.

"Get dressed!"

I stared up at him open-mouthed, but he broke away from me instantly. Only the loud bang of my door and the rumble of fleeting feet on the stairs made me understand my defeat. I turned around on my bed and wept bitterly.

**Oh dear…Kitty I feel so incredibly sorry for you, but honestly that was not all too subtle! I'm afraid you only succeeded in talking yourself into prurience. With regard to Holmes' confidence, you have just taken one great step backwards…**

**Heheee, I'm really nasty to my characters, I know. Holmes all aghast and Kitty lying there like: Yes, please…please…! I must really say her "vision" of whining, desperately voluptuous Holmes has backfired spectacularly.**

**Dear me, how will they go on after this disgrace? I wouldn't want to be in their shoes, I really wouldn't! **

**All the best, Mrs.F**


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter seventeen: Cat fight

19th May 1887

During the following days I was so much engaged in looking after Natasha that I almost forgot about my anxieties regarding Porkey. The poor girl alternatingly experienced moments of perspicuity and of complete derangement, and it was difficult to foresee which it would be the next minute. I discovered I could achieve good results by commonplace talk or reading novels to her that were not overly exciting. All the same, she was frequently absent and oftentimes bemused, which rendered her querulous and irritable in spite of her quietly nature.

At least, she did not, like on that memorable day, fail or pretend to fail recognizing me, for which I was immensely grateful. Even if she attacked me with outrageously unjust accusations, this was a hundred times better than her wide, frightened, uncomprehending eyes, of which to think it still sent a shiver down my spine. Her familiar environment had a pacifying influence over her, so I did not again venture to lure her out of it. Instead, I tried to amuse her when she had a lugubrious mood, and too soothe her when she had a disputatious one. She was not fit for intercourse with a stranger, so kept her company as often as I could. Once or twice, her state even necessitated for me to stay overnight rather than returning home to Baker Street. I was not sorry.

However, one week after our walk in the park, I chanced to find her to be in a comparatively stable condition of clarity, so I saw no harm in leaving her for what remained of the day. I recalled what I had learned from Ernie, and travelled down to Soho, where my friend was supposed to while away his over-abundant leisure time.

oooOOOooo

I had been looking for the entrance to the Music Hall for fifteen minutes on end before tipping a beggar who could presently give me direction as to its location. Apparently, the owners had good reasons for keeping it insider knowledge, I thought warily, I would not have been astonished if they catered entertainment beyond the realm of the legitimate. I was admitted by the charwoman without further hindrance, but she was a Chinese and had so little English that I was compelled to give up any enquiries after Porkey's whereabouts.

Pursuing a faint din, I roamed the narrow, seedy hallways and corridors, until at last I found the stairway to the audience room. It was only mid-day, but a small troupe of rather burly, red-faced women had assembled onstage, engaged in what apparently was some kind of rehearsal. There was no music, only a stout matron who conducted the whole thing. With a bitter sneer, I watched the faded girls hop about to the inaudible sound of Cancan, jerking up their legs and raising their skirts provocatively, which, as they were only wearing open pantaloons beneath, proved to be intriguing entertainment indeed for a predominantly male audience.

However, only one of the small round tables in the rear was occupied by a lone figure. I cupped my hands around my mouth, calling "Porkey!" down from the elevated point where I was standing. He laboriously lifted his head, and I could discern even at a distance that he was drunk as hell. "Porkey!"

Hustling down the spiral stair and making over to the place where he sat, I chided him: "What business d'ye 'ave in such a vile den as this, eh? Yer mates all worried 'bout ya, but what's it t'you? You don't care, you jus' hang around in 'ere all day an' get boozed! Yer re'lly the limit, Porkey!"

"I'm so sorry girl", Porkey replied inarticulately. "So sorry ya got worked up 'bout lousy ol' Porkey."

"Oh, don't say such rubbish!" I hooked my arms underneath his and tried to get him to his feet, but he remained passive, so that I soon had to abandon my efforts. "I say, ya overreached yerself! Is there any concrete aim in drinking yerself senseless in a place loike this?"

"Don't be nasty to poor ol' Porkey", he whined, "poor ol' Porkey! Ya don't know what love is, tha's the trouble girl…real love…loike the love I 'ave fer Marge…" he gesticulated vaguely into the direction of the stage, and I was left to wondering which one of the women he might be referring to, but it was all the same to me, for they were all equally common looking.

"Oh, good fer you!" I snapped at him, shaking him up in his alcohol haze. "Good fer you yer so lucky in matters o' the heart, loike you've always been! And what'll it be this time, pray? Gigantic champagne bills fer yer friends ter settle? You beaten up in a street fight by some jealous bruiser, or another li'le chavy wiv yer mug ya'll 'ave ter support?"

"Hell, yer so unfair to Marge an' yer dear ol' Porkey…"

"Cut _dear ol'_! I hain't met yer Marge yet, but I jus' s'ppose if she's 'un of the sort that's bouncing up an' down right there, she's neither pretty, nor 'as she any talent, nor does she appear ter inspire confidence! Open yer eyes, man!" I waved my hand to generally indicate our surroundings. "What does a honest chap loike you 'ave ter do wiv a bird workin' in such a back-street hole as this?"

"Eh, Missy!" The conductress had enough of my interference. She turned around on the spot, arms akimbo. "If the 'stablishment don't please yer Ladyship, yer can clear off! Sharp's the word!"

"Hold yer ugly kisser, dopey cow!" I roared back, driven to extremes by psychological stress. I was so irritated and bugged out I was in fear about what I might do if somebody should try to get fresh with me.

"Say that again!" The manageress, highly flushed in her already ruddy face, stomped down from the stage, her breath menacingly heavy. "Say that again an' I'll tear ya to shreds, impudent li'le…"

I lost my head and clutched my hands into her creasy face without further ado, but within an instant she was over me, throwing me to the floor with her superior weight.

"I'll…teach yer…ter…bottle ….me…pal…" I panted, grabbing her short, thick neck, but my threats lost impressiveness as I was driven closer to suffocation. Relentlessly struggling against the overwhelming foe, that above all had dug her stubby fingers into my hair, I felt the resources of my sinews wane. _Dash it all_, I thought, my feet pedaling uselessly, _I'm being crushed to mush by this battleship of a wench. Farewell then, Porkey!_

It was only in the last minute, to my perception, that the ferocity of the fight abated, and the weight was taken off my defeated figure. "_Cara donna!" _a familiar male voice exclaimed with good humour. "_Placidamente, per favore! _Let go off the lady, you shall have to close down your business if she comes to harm."

I wiped back my hair and scrambled to my knees, scanning my savior who had dragged the plump fury off me. He was still keeping her in check with both arms, his eyes smiling down at me through stray strands of his dark, shoulder-length hair. His dress was of a certain shabby elegance, threadbare and yet appealing in a casual, debonair manner. "Lorenzo! You here!"

"Always at your service, _carina_. And not a moment too early, I see." He let go off the woman and reached out for my hand to pull me up from the floor. Porkey was still drowsing in blank apathy, clinging to a half empty bottle with an insecure fist. His elbow was slipping on the table top time and time again.

"Right now, tha's enough! Pack off, or I'll call the bottles!" the mistress ranted in mindless rage. She had recovered from Lorenzo's intervention, and now that he was not holding her at bay any longer, gave vent to her feelings. "You've got order to stay away from the 'ouse, all three of you! An' if I ever see tha' fellow come too close to 'un o' me girls again…."

"Which'll be never, long as you employ those wiv pancakes for their mugs!" I yelled back.

"Now calm down Kitty, we don't want to get into trouble. Just support your friend on one side – ah_! Molto gravoso, tuo amico!_ – and I'll be on the other. It's fine, my good woman, we're leaving already."

Somehow we managed to escape the wrath of the mistress, and to get Porkey up the stairs and through the cramped corridors, arriving in the open air just in time for him to disappear behind the waste containers of an adjoining backyard.

"_Cielo!_" Lorenzo rolled his eyes heavenwards, clearly disgusted. "That was close. He's not good for much in the drinking compartment, I perceive."

"Nah, he's _too_ good", I returned grimly. "What business did _you_ have in there, by the way?"

"Apart from saving your skin?" He gave me a teasing look.

"Yes, thank you. I knows I owe you a bag fer that."

"Oh, it was nothing _– niente_!" he waved me away with a grand air. "But you're right, I did have other business in there – searching a suitable model for my new picture among the dancers. It's going to be a nude, you see."

"And did you find any?"

"You must be joking. Did you see those hams? Those turkey necks? A lovely picture they would make. Sadly, I'm only getting commissions for nudes nowadays, otherwise I'd ask you…"

A sudden gloom crept into Lorenzo's dark Mediterranean eyes, and his boisterous manner faded away. "Kitty – I'm sure I told you so before, but I still want you to know I'm so, so, so infinitely sorry…you must hate me, _senz'altro_…"

"Oh, please! Will you finally stop this nonsense? I do not blame you and I never did. I'm weary of repeating it over and over again."

"Yes, but listen _cara_…if there's anything for me to do to make up for it a little…"

"I'm – fine, Lorenzo, thank you. You just saved me from certain death of swatting, so there's rather plenty for me to make up for."

"But…"

Luckily, Porkey reappeared this moment, so that I was spared any further outpours of my companion's guilty conscience.

"Well", I said austerely, trying at the same time to wince and to take him by the arm, "I trust you are feeling a little sobered by now. I shall conduct you 'ome to yer bed, and you can sleep it off. But don't get too comfy, we'll talk it over in the morning."

I wanted to lead him away, but Lorenzo caught me by the arm. "Wait a second, Kitty. You remember that other night, when I wanted to introduce you to my writing friend?"

"Indeed, I remember he was conspicuous by absence and completely wasted our time."

"Ah, but he is worth every second that's wasted over him. Trust me Kitty, you just have to meet Mr. G- . You'll have no end of conversations with him, I'm sure."

"Ripping. When can I meet this wonder-boy, then?"

"Look…" he extracted a leaflet and the butt of a lead pencil from his worn-out flannel jacket. "There's a reading on Friday night, at Phoebe's place. She has constructed quite a nice little literary salon recently."

"Phoebe?" I tossed back my head with a derisive snort of laughter. "She can't, and won't ever 'ave a literary salon of any significance. She's much too adapted to mainstream."

"Maybe she's not a luminary herself, but she does have some good contacts. Will you come with me?"

"Where does she live, then?"

"In Bethnal Green. I can pick you up eight thirty." He scribbled down the time and passed me the note.

"Alright, I'll be ready then."

"_Magnificamente_! So long, _bella_ Kitty!" He jumped from the pavement into the gutter, waving at me nonchalantly before he disappeared around the corner. I chuckled and signified a cab to drive up and take Porkey and me in.

**Hi!**

**I wish you a happy new year's eve everywhere and glittering parties of course! God Save the Queen! Skoal!**

**Yours, Mrs.F**


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter eighteen: The Mazarin Stone

19th May 1887

I returned home after having installed Porkey in his bed, and decided to look in on Mrs. Hudson.

"Is Mr. 'olmes in?" I asked as a matter of routine. I had hardly seen him since the _Incident_. He was now spending more time away from home than ever, it seemed, and he had consequently shunned my bed the entire week. For my part, I was too much of a coward to bear his presence, and frequently feigned migraine and other indispositions that necessitated my seclusion. I knew I had placed myself in the wrong, but mark I had been acting on a thorough misconceiving. I had taken him for a human being.

Up to now, Mrs. Hudson had proved to be a useful ally in the matter of slipping in and out of the house without bumping into him, but today she was in something of a huff, I found.

"I'm afraid I don't know, madam", Mrs. Hudson declared stiffly.

"Now, don't give me tha' look", I returned, quite taken aback. "ya always knows whether he is in or not."

"I'm _sorry_, madam", she replied with a certain emphasis on _sorry_.

I frowned. "Something the matter?" To my dismay, Mrs. Hudson started blinking and clearing her throat, and I instinctively shoved her into a chair. "What is it, my dear? What 'as 'appened?"

"Oh, nothing really", the landlady sobbed, "I should long be accustomed to it!"

"What 'as 'e done?" I asked with an edge to my voice.

"He's giving me the most dreadful treatment, madam…though I mean well, heaven knows nobody in the world means better with him than I! I was simply worried because he showed some signs of having caught a cold, so I tried this and that to ease it, no pestering, only additional blankets and a warm lunch. And Lord, Mr. Holmes grew so angry! He said I was disturbing him in important work, that he was tired of my meddling and that the two of you would set out to look for a new home if I didn't stop harassing him!"

"No, he didn't!" I furiously contracted my brows. "Now don't worry, Mrs. 'udson, calm down. If it should come to that, ya knows I too would 'ave a say in the matter!"

Mrs. Hudson looked at me from puffy, red-rimmed eyes. "Mr. Holmes said you would love to move elsewhere. He said you were ever dissatisfied with me!"

"He said _what_?" My eyes widened.

"That's nothing but the truth, madam!"

"That bleedin' rat!" I banged my fist on the table so that the cups on it bounded a little. Mrs. Hudson seemed to be on the verge of fainting at my eruption, but I did not pay her any heed, getting up and rushing out into the staircase. This time Holmes had gone too far! Was it not enough that he had completely unsettled our excellent landlady, did he have to drag me into this and tell such terrible lies? Ungraciously stomping up the stairs, I decided on my lowliest vocabulary, the meanest insults I was now free to trade with him.

I ripped open the door and marched in, fully prepared to interrupt his current consultation, even if he were advising the Queen herself. But my bracing up had been for naught. He was not there – but in his stead a blonde, extremely good-looking man with a broad chest and expressive green eyes. He was standing by the fireplace, with a wrinkled nose passing a finger over the mantelpiece, and shaking off the fine tobacco dust. On my not too gentle entering, his face discarded some of its blasé air, which was replaced by a large smile.

"Good afternoon! I am waiting for Mr. Holmes. Is he likely to be long?"

"I dunno", I growled, "but whether he be long or not, I'll 'ave ter talk to 'im first!"

He scrutinized me for a second before he relented. "As you wish, Miss…?"

"Kitty", I replied curtly.

"Kitty!" he smiled once more, displaying a lot of very even teeth. "Charming. Of course, _Ladies first_ is still a principle to which the true gentleman must obey, Miss Kitty."

I looked at him cautiously, but he seemed to be genuine enough in his gallantry. "I say, that's kind o' you", I finally observed. "D'yer want to engage Mr. 'olmes in a case?"

"Alas, yes." The gentleman turned his eyes heavenwards dramatically. "Surely you read all about it in the newspaper. Here it is." He gave me a folded-over _Times_ and instantly the _theft of the valuable Mazarin Stone_ caught my eye. I would not have missed it, even if it had not been underlined with a red pencil, for the head-line was enormous. Lowering the paper, I locked my gaze on to that of Holmes' visitor.

"I 'ad no idea."

"Well, well…" he shrugged his nicely pronounced shoulders. "It's a nasty business, my dear. I have been commissioned with the replacement of the stone, of course, but I should prefer not to think about it until Mr. Holmes' return. I wished I could just entrust the matter to him and be done with it. But I am afraid his capacities are vastly overrated. At least I find the man cannot live up to his reputation once you meet him."

"Indeed", I gnashed my teeth. He watched me with amusement.

"You look as though you had a bone to pick with him!"

"Which I do, make no mistaike!" I hissed angrily.

"Oh, please do not make yourself uneasy, my dear lady. I have a proposition to make: We both shall not trouble ourselves with our problems until Mr. _Uebermensch_ arrives."

"Perhaps you are right", I acknowledged grudgingly.

"Certainly I'm right. It won't do, after all, to have such a lovely lady burden herself with unnecessary concern. It might etch lines into her pretty face. And that'd be a shame."

"Oh…" I coyly returned his smile and fiddled with my hair. Naturally his compliments were not made with particular wit, but I had not lately been pampered with such flattering attention, and therefore greedily sucked in each of his words. "Why, thank you sir."

"No need to thank me, my dear Miss Kitty", he answered, stepping up quite close to me. "Praise where praise is due, I should think."

I chuckled, clandestinely admiring his built of body. "Oh, but you are very kind sir."

"Not at all." He reached for my hand, kissed it gently and looked deeply into my eyes. "A very lucky chance afforded me your acquaintance, Miss Kitty. I should be very glad if we could continue it after…" he suddenly let go off my hand, hastily retreating with a flushed face.

I revolved and saw Holmes leaning against the door frame with folded arms. A sneer, stemming from amusement and annoyance to equal parts, curled his lips. By the way, the unknown gentleman was master of himself again within an instant.

"Mr. Holmes! You finally deign to see me. Don't you think it would have been your duty to make an appearance at the appointed hour?"

"Oh, I am so _sorry_", Holmes replied airily, sounding like Mrs. Hudson. Neglecting to grace me with a look, he crossed over to his favourite chair and was seated, or rather flung himself down unceremoniously. "Well, Lord Cantlemere", he observed, steepling his fingers and watching his caller across them, "it appears you have some tremendous problem to submit to my consideration. _You_ would not call on me for a trifle."

"Indeed, I would have been extremely hesitant in doing so, if the matter at hand were not so very urgent", the Lord replied condescendingly. "But I shall add some more minutes to your tardiness. This young lady has been promised to prevail."

"Oh, pray state your case straight away", I said anxiously, for now that my rage had dissipated for the most part, I found the idea of facing – especially in consideration of our current footing – uncomfortable at best. Probably he was catching on to my thoughts as sometimes he did, for when our eyes met accidentally, he gave me a cold, alarmingly bitter look.

"Your wish is my command, my dear", Lord Cantlemere said courteously. "There you see, Holmes, what comes of double-scheduling your appointment hours. Now not only I will have been in the discomfort of waiting, but this charming lady will be compelled to it also! And furthermore, where are your manners? Would you not be so kind as to introduce us formally? I would like to know whom I had the tremendous pleasure to address", he snapped, his voice softening when his gaze wandered into my direction, eyes glinting warmly.

Mr. Holmes' eyes glinted equally, though not from new-found affection but from a malicious hilarity well hidden behind his stoic, impassive face. "Naturally, Lord Cantlemere. Though I'm afraid I am obliged to disappoint you for the second time in one day, since the tremendously charming person happens to be my wife."

oooOOOooo

I made a somewhat inglorious exit, leaving the gob-smacked Lord alone with Holmes and withdrawing to my room. Half an hour passed before I heard His Lordship depart, and soon afterwards, a tear-stained Mrs. Hudson appeared to inform me my husband wished to see me downstairs. I considered remaining where I was, and hoping he would forget me, but in the end I could not bear the thought of myself acting such a chicken-heart, and hesitantly descended.

He was standing by the blackboard as I entered, removing all the magnets except the black one, which now adorned the spot denoted as London. I worked up all of my courage and jangled: "Well? Mrs. 'udson is completely on the ropes now. Are you satisfied with yerself?"

He slowly turned around to me, with a look that made me want to punch his stupid, arrogant face. "Satisfied? I am far from satisfied, madam. Meanwhile, I suspected you would succeed in fixing the blame for Mrs. Hudson's current hysteria on me somehow. That is just the way it goes. But I'm afraid it doesn't concern me very much."

"You - !"

"Ah!" he lifted his arm to silence me. "Do not exert yourself by digging for suitable phrases in your gutter lexis, my dear. Fact is, I was downstairs earlier and heard the flattering term you applied to me."

"I see!" I glared at him, arms akimbo, trying not to shiver at the expression of his eyes. "So you are not only a dirty liar, but also an eavesdropper!"

"Shut your mouth", Mr. Holmes said coldly. My arms fell down to my sides helplessly and my lips began to tremble. When had I become such a weakling? "It is deplorable you never had a nurse who'd wash it out with soap after your use of filthy language, but there you are. I don't see why I should be subjected to the outbursts of your lack of kind, so kindly spare me this tiresome rigmarole and tell me frankly what you may have to complain of."

"Why – why did you tell Mrs. Hudson those awful falsehoods about me? Why did you allege we wanted to go away?" I exclaimed, detesting the whiny sound of my own words.

"You're driveling", he returned contemptuously. "I said nothing of the kind. The foolish woman must have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Perhaps I breached the possibility of obtaining a new accommodation if it suited me…"

"Well, that was a beastly thing to say!" I replied with a hostile glance.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I have no time to loose over such futile discussions. You must learn to come to terms with your domestic complications yourself…"

"_My_? My complications?"

"Listen, Kitty!" he seized me by the shoulders, smiling briefly, and I suddenly felt my heart melt, my anger dissipate. "I'll give you my solemn pledge never again to disturb Mrs. Hudson's peace of mind with such a suggestion, but pray do not be a pain in my neck about it just now. I have work to do, and I shall require your help."

"How could I help you in your work, Mr. 'olmes?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"There are just a few items I need, and I hope you will procure them. They are a parasol, a ladies' purse, and one or two skirts."

"A…?" I tried to trim my face with a somewhat more intelligent look than the one I feared it currently displayed.

"You heard me. I need those things, and the quicker the better I should think. I _do_ assume you have a purse?"

"Y –yes, o' course I do", I mumbled.

"And I know you own a parasol, for you took a walk in the park the other day and returned without a hint of sunburn, though the weather was very bright."

"Yes", I conceded unwillingly.

"And I also suppose you possess such a thing as a petticoat, observing your fondness with subtle decorative clothing", he remarked neutrally, but I keenly felt the sting and lowered my eyes in defeat.

"Certainly. You shall 'ave everything as soon as I can bring it."

I made for the door, when I was alerted by a sneeze and a lengthy coughing fit. Recalling Mrs. Hudson's words, I ejaculated: "It would be better if ya 'ad a break before launching yerself into work again! Clearly, there's a pretty nasty cold pending."

"Nonsense", I heard Holmes' miffed voice through the aperture of the door to his bedroom, whence he had retired. "It is just that cursed cat of yours. Atishoo!"

I shook my head and went away.

**Hello!**

**Pooh…bad atmosphere! What a piece of luck for Holmes Kitty is so susceptible to manipulation. She'd rather not fall out with him and he uses that knowledge to his own ends. The same goes for Mrs. Hudson, they are both fond of him. I wonder whether he deserves it…**

**Love, Mrs. F**


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19: Masquerade

19th May 1887

I had a lengthy discussion with our landlady in the evening, intended to soothe and console her, but I only achieved making anger replace her anxiousness when she learned that Holmes had tried to manipulate her to his ends.

"Look 'ere, it was all more or less an unfortunate misunderstanding", I pleaded with her, but she remained irreconcilable.

"If everything you told me is true, madam, Mr. Holmes has acted shamefully and without the least regard for me. I am, of course, not the least bit surprised. He has ever been selfish and unscrupulous. But I cannot discern the trace of a misunderstanding in all this."

"Fine", I returned with exasperation, "it has been completely advertent – an' unscrupulous. Would you at least tell me where Mr. 'olmes 'as gone to, then? I talked to 'im earlier upstairs, but when I looked in on 'im a li'le while later, 'e was no longer there. Did ya see him descend?"

"I did not", she replied in a gruffly tone. "But there has been an elderly lady coming down an hour ago. It must have been some client of his."

I creased my brow. "There hain't been no old woman ter see 'im!"

"I tell you there has, madam. She came out of his consulting room and went down the stairs, without so much as a word to me."

"It's impossible. I would 'ave been aware if 'e 'ad received any visitors…"

"Well, I know only what I saw. The lady was very much bent with age. She had grizzled grey hair and carried a pale green parasol whose youthfulness did not quite correspond to her years, and I observed her petticoat was at least six inches too short for her."

"Oh…I see", I muttered weakly. "I must 'ave been mistaiken, then. If the lady should return, Mrs. 'udson, pray tell 'er I would like ter 'ave me parasol back tomorrow for me constitutional."

The landlady looked fairly bemused, but when I wanted to leave her in order to recover from my latest discovery, she held me back. "Just a minute, madam, there is something else. I must ask you to see to it Mr. Holmes' room is in a presentable state tomorrow, for he expects the visit of none but the Prime Minister himself, and the Home Secretary."

"No!" I snapped my eyes open, but Mrs. Hudson was very cool about it, as if it were a thoroughly trivial incident hardly worth mention.

"Yes indeed, madam. You will understand I cannot permit my house to look a mess under these circumstances. Lord Cantlemere has given to understand that it will be a very short interview only, nonetheless…"

"Of course", I agreed. "But why d'ye want me ter do it?"

"Because Mr. Holmes shall see he has done great damage to our friendship", Mrs. Hudson replied with dignity. "If he thinks he can treat me the way he did, it is high time for me to demonstrate…"

"Splendid", I groaned. "So everything will come down on me, after all. Well…for the sake of peace and in the good cause, I shall see to it."

"Thank you, madam!" The old lady sighed with relief. "You free me of a moral conflict!"

I smiled, but noticed myself that my face had grown somewhat pensive. I did not greatly mind the assigned job, nor did I see something disgraceful in it, but I could not help wondering if Mrs. Hudson would have asked it in case Holmes had married a lady of his own breed.

oooOOOooo

I wanted to wait up for the "elderly lady", but, unwilling though I was to miss the sight of her, it grew so late that I was compelled to surrender to fatigue. It had been an eventful day. Nursing Natasha, wrestling a heavy-weight Soho harridan and quarreling with Holmes were none of my more facile exercises. Each had contributed their pinch to make me drop onto the mattress when the clock struck half past ten, and he had not yet returned.

At the breakfast table, he was still not there, and I was getting concerned. Surely, he had not been out and about all night, with his health already affected by the erratic spring weather? In cold blood, I contemplated the possibilities of his having come to harm, and wondered whether I should post him missing at the Yard. There were the imminent high-ranking visitors, too. I recalled my promise to Mrs. Hudson and hesitantly did my job, wiping dust, sweeping the floor and disposing of Mr. Holmes' manifold kinds of rubbish, always with an anxious eye on the mantle-clock. The interview had, according to the landlady, been scheduled for 3pm, and when the hands were approaching a quarter to three, and I had just made up my mind to go to the police, the door burst open. I revolved, mob in one hand, ash-tray in the other, when an entirely strange man come rushing in and in Holmes' voice exclaimed:

"Bless you, Kitty! Get me my frock, they're on their way! Quickly! Achoo!"

"Mr. 'olmes – what the deuce…?"

He was dressed like an ordinary workman, but dropped his shabby cap and vest on the way to his room. Mindful of the room's aspect, I hurried after him, picking up the things, and thereby entered his private sanctum for the first time. I was overwhelmed by the assemblage of reflecting surface: The looking glass over the washstand, the metallized wings of his armoire, a pathetic little vanity mirror on a rack – but that glimpse was all I could get, for he urged me to make haste.

"Come on, my lass, lay out some things for me while I take off the make-up", he ordered, sitting down in front of one of the abundant glasses and starting to wipe the thick brownish paint from his visage with a moist tissue. Agitatedly, I searched his closet for apparel appropriate for the occasion. Downstairs, the doorbell rang as I had spread his shirt, trousers, waistcoat, collar, suspenders and watch-chain on the bed as neatly as possible.

"Oh my goodness! Let's hope Mrs. Hudson will detain them for a minute", Holmes groaned, stroking back his hair with a pomaded comb.

"She won't. I'm afraid she is still somewhat irked wiv ya", I ventured to remark.

"Damn!" He banged the comb to the tabletop and jumped to his feet, seizing me by the wrist and dragging me to the door. "I must get ready – shoo, shoo! Get out!"

oooOOOooo

I concealed my cleaning devices just in time for the arrival of the illustrious gentlemen whom I greeted reverently. It was my conviction Holmes would never make it, but he presently emerged his chamber after having performed a record speed toilet on his person. He had just forgotten to remove his character's artificial eyebrows, but they corresponded with his natural tint of hair and I simply hoped nobody would observe it.

"Gentlemen", Holmes said, summarizing his guests and inclining his head to them, "Pray be seated. This is my wife, Catherine", he added, giving me a look as though I were an altogether unwelcome intruder who had quite brazenly imposed herself on the party. "You may speak as openly in front of her as if we were undisturbed."

"Then I shall come to the point without circumlocution", The Marques of Salisbury, newly appointed Prime Minister of England, commenced. "Lord Cantlemere has, I believe, already informed you about the details of the Mazarin Stone theft?"

"His Lordship has indeed paid his respects on us quite charmingly", Holmes replied, suddenly lapsing into a coughing fit of which the end had to be abided for the conversation to continue. I poured out a glass of water and handed him a handkerchief, and he briefly nodded his acknowledgement.

"Have you as yet any clue as to the whereabouts of the gem?" The Prime Minister desired to know, as soon as he had recovered.

"Frankly, sir, I have not. But I hope to provide some before many days are gone."

"That doesn't help us much." The Marques seemed disappointed. "We are utterly in the dark about the affair. The trouble is that any skilled robber could have perpetrated the deed."

"Indeed, sir, but I have committed myself to Count Sylvius Negretto, an Italian nobleman of colourful past and dubious present. It is an open secret that his fortune has been made with questionable means."

The Home Secretary's eyebrows arched slightly. "Do you have any concrete reason to suspect this Count Negretto?"

"I regard the fact that he returned to England one week prior to the felony - after an absence of four months! – as highly suggestive. Furthermore, it is apparent from my investigations that he surrounds himself with the rather more shady characters of the London underworld, and is embroiled in business dealings with Amsterdam."

"You have had him observed, then?"

"I took the liberty of observing him myself", Holmes replied lightly. "Yesterday I followed him in the guise of an elderly woman. Today I was a carpenter out of work. The ruse was astute, but ineffective. I cannot get close enough to him to get hold of any indication as to the hiding place."

"He must be searched", the Home Secretary suggested, "arrested!"

The Marques slowly shook his grey head in negation. "An unlawful assault on a member of foreign nobility could generate a most unpleasant sentiment against us on the Continent."

"And what is more, it might be in vain. We would have got hold of the culprits, but not of the treasure", Holmes interjected. "My suggestion would be to ask Negretto to call on me here and lay a trap for him."

The Prime Minister looked positively uncomfortable. "I don't like it, Mr. Holmes. Can't you lay more solid prove before us?"

Holmes' eyes narrowed dangerously. "I am not acting on presumption, sir. I _know_ Negretto is your man. I talked to the cabmen who transported him to and from the crime scene, to people who have seen him, and even to people who participated in his game. I admit my reputation is humble, but you will have to rely on the guarantee my former successes grant you, or you will have to look for another agent."

"Of course I didn't mean to imply any depreciation, Mr. Holmes", the Marques hurried to declare. "But to err is human. Imagine the situation we'd face if we gave you leave to use force on Negretto and he proved to be innocent of the crime!"

"I would like to make two things absolutely clear", Holmes said, a picture of offended dignity. "First, I never use force when guile may serve. And second, I never err."

oooOOOooo

Ten minutes later, the gentlemen had agreed upon it that Holmes should have a free hand in the proceedings, so long as he promised to call in the police as soon as he had anything definite. The Prime Minister and the Home Secretary left, and according to the glance they traded when Holmes turned his back on them, they left gladly. I could not possibly hold it against them.

I showed them out, for Mrs. Hudson had carried into effect her threat and had made herself scarce. When I returned to my husband, he was standing by the window and thoughtfully watched the brougham rattle away. "Kitty", he said, without turning around, "was I very uncivil?"

"Oh, but you always are, Mr. 'olmes", I reassured him. "Jus' thank 'eaven they did not observe yer fake eyebrows!"

"My…?" He spun around, reaching up to his forehead and removing the things with a swift movement. "A blessing indeed! Well, I may be forgiven for not noticing earlier, given the haste in which I had to prepare myself."

"Ya did not tell me ya were going ter nark on tha' fellow Negretto?" I enquired curiously, sitting down on the couch and watching him expectantly.

"Achoo! Pardon me. It was the opportune thing to do, though not thoroughly enjoyable I assure you. Female disguise is nothing new to me, but still a rather irksome resort."

"I would 'ave loved ter see that!"

"I can believe it. Nevertheless, it is a comfort to know the disgrace has been confined to Mrs. Hudson. Is she still angry with me, what do you think?"

"Rather."

"Perhaps I should not have told her to bring up my dinner the day after tomorrow", he pondered wistfully.

"I'm afraid she won't even bring it then. She has gone on strike. She was not even expressing concern about yer staying away las' night. Which reminds me – where in the world 'ave ye been? I was about ter fetch the bottles."

"Very sorry to have caused you trouble, but I could not return home as it were. I spent the night in the house of an acquaintance – " He saw my surprised expression and proceeded: " - an artist who supplies me with disguise occasionally. Like today, for instance."

"Oh, I see." I quickly cast my eyes down. "Is she a specialist in make-up?"

"_He_ is a renowned Parisian couturier", Holmes corrected me calmly, "with a foible for costumes and fancy dress. I must have tried on a dozen of the most dreadful outfits, just to be a good sport."

"Ah…indeed?" I smiled up at him demurely. " 'ow jolly. Will you go there again today? Will you take me wiv you?"

Holmes gave no reply. His gaze suddenly seemed to aim at a faraway point. His already pale face changed to a shade altogether drained of colour, his eyeballs turning to the inside, and without so much as a sigh, his limbs gave way and he collapsed onto the carpet.

**Cockney:**

**To nark – to spy**

**Bottles – police men**

**Hmmm…what's amiss with Sherl? Was it dressing up as a woman that drained him so, or what? Poor Kitty doesn't get a moment's leisure, at any rate….**

**Kind Regards, Mrs.F**


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20: Fever

19th May 1887

„Holmes! Dear me, Holmes!"

Needless to say, I was shocked to the core. Rushing to his side and throwing myself on my knees, I bent over him and agitatedly patted his face and neck. The least contact with his skin told me his temperature was elevated, he had fever. A light film of cold sweat covered his forehead, but the rest of him was aglow with heat. It could hardly have caused his sudden loss of consciousness, though.

Desperately I thought about what I should do. Get Mrs. Hudson? A doctor? Try to wake him up? Perhaps there were things I ought to do, perhaps I was wasting time. But I had not the slightest notion of first aid. Instead, I nervously continued to pat and shake him, until he opened his eyes.

"Oh, 'olmes! Thank God!"

"So sorry, Kitty", he croaked, "for having fainted in your presence."

"An' ya should be!" I scolded him. "Why don't ya tell me yer ill? Why are ya goin' out a-huntin' criminals in tha' state? Ya must awready 'ave been aware o' the fever yesterday, don't purport something different!"

He sat up copiously, resting on his palms against the floor. Concerned he might pass out again, I slipped an arm around his shoulders, and he was too weary to shake it off.

"I say! I felt weak for a second….light-headed …what a mercy it didn't happen earlier."

"Shall I fetch anyone? A physician? Watson, perhaps?"

Slowly passing his hand over his forehead, he growled: "Because of a pathetic bit of fever? Certainly not. I shall go to bed, and I shall be fine in the evening."

I decided not to deprive him of this illusion. "When was the last time you 'ave eaten?"

"This morning….yesterday….I really forget. But I am hungry now."

"No surprise!" I gently forced him to recline onto the floor. "Now ya remain 'ere an' don't move. I'll go an' find Mrs. 'udson an' see what we can do. Don't move!" I warned him, getting up and stepping over him. "I'm back presently."

oooOOOooo

I found the landlady downstairs in the kitchen, caught up in the process of doing the rental accounting for her tenants.

"Mrs. 'udson", I said with decision, "I'm afraid Mr. 'olmes 'as fallen ill. Would ya please prepare some cold compresses an' something ter eat?"

She raised her head and gave me a funny look.

"Has he indeed. Well, I think Mr. Holmes will find it'll take a better remedy for what he did than a sudden illness."

I didn't trust my ears. How could anybody be so awfully sensitive? "Oh, c'mon, 'e hain't eaten in hours an' is getting' weaker by the minute…"

"I regret very much that I can do nothing for him", Mrs. Hudson replied snippily. "Mr. Holmes ought to have given that a thought before he slighted me so. I have no antidote against arrogance in my medicine case."

Now I had enough. Stomping my foot, I blared:"Getta move woman, for all yer bloomin' lives' worth!Mr.'olmes ain't malingering, 'e swooned right away an' if ya don't do what I said, I promise I shall get ya goin'!"

If there was one thing Mrs. Hudson could not stand, it was shouting. She ducked her head and retreated a little, as if she really thought I were about to fly at her throat. I cast a fierce glance at her before I started to rip open every drawer and search them for something to soothe the fever.

The old lady watched me anxiously, finally tweeting: "You'll find some thin lawn cloths in the cupboard over there…they could be used for compresses. I could prepare an ointment from camphor and eucalyptus if you like…."

I turned around abruptly, and she flinched mechanically. "Mrs. 'udson", I professed, "that was the first useful statement you 'ave given so far. A menthol compress applied ter the chest will both decrease the fever an' ease the cold. I'll see 'im ter bed, an' you can…"

"Please, madam", Mrs. Hudson said meekly, "you shall have to do it yourself. I cannot go upstairs and attend to him. He would never take me seriously afterwards…"

With an impatient sigh, I shrugged my shoulders. "As you will. Ya'll prepare the bandages, an' I'll taike 'em up to 'im."

oooOOOooo

Back up the stairs, I found he had betaken himself to bed on his own, despite my orders. The clothes I had so neatly spread out for him earlier now pooled on the floor untidily, and his head, as it was resting on the pillow, was ruffled like it had been prior to his combing it.

"Mr. 'olmes! Guarding you is worse than trying to herd cats! Can't ye for once do what I say?"

"What is that you are bringing?" he enquired warily, ignoring my admonishment.

"Tha's cold compresses soaking in menthol essences. We shall apply them to the chest, an' ya'll see the good it'll do yer bronchia. Get outta tha' shirt, an' be quick about it!"

He did not seem to take well to the scheme, writhing visibly, but I had little pity for him, rolling up my eyes in disbelief.

"Oh, _come on_, don't be such a baby! D'ye think I shall see anything I hain't seen before on me life?"

He gave no reply, but opened his collar and shirt buttons extremely hesitantly. The discarded cuff links were placed in the palm of my outstretched hand without comment.

"_Here_ we go. No, don't drop it to the floor, we've quite enough lying about in 'ere." I folded his shirt over and put it away. "Now, this may be a wee bit uncomfortable at first, but if ya behaves well, you shall 'ave fer yer reward a nice li'le snack I'm sure Mrs. 'udson is preparing at the moment. Very well…"

I cautiously took both of his hands and joined them together behind his head before I started to wrap the clammy bandage around his lean torso. He really was alarmingly thin, but not in the worst of training, I observed approvingly. If his ribs could be counted on either side, so could his abdominal muscles. The skin was of the same pallor as that of an ivory figurine, except for a quite large hematoma in the region of his ribcage, and he issued an angry malediction when I accidentally brushed it.

"Pay attention, woman! By Jove, every bit of having fever is better than being subjected to your care!"

"Oh, balderdash. Where did ye get that from, anyways? It looks quite recent."

"It is a souvenir from my last visit to Alison's rooms – that's my boxing club – and the disagreement I had there with a chap named Sam Merton. He is affiliated to Negretto, by the way. But the bruise is in good company with similar attentions from your friend Baron Gruner's proxies – look!"

He indicated a faded scar that started at the sternum and trailed down as far as his midriff, apparently caused by a savage slash with a pointed weapon, probably the tip of a walking stick. I paused in my work to examine it briefly.

_Flashback…_

_The curtains were drawn in the sick room when Watson entered it, full of apprehensions. Solicitously his eyes roved the figure of his friend, who laid in bed motionlessly, face covered with blue and purple bruises, eyelids so much swollen from the impact of violent blows that he was obliged to leave them closed. His head had been dressed with a gauze bandage. _

_His voice, however, was calm and unshaken when he addressed the other man. "It's alright, Watson. Don't look so scared."_

"_You mustn't talk!" the doctor whispered, closing the door so gently behind him that one had to think the slightest concussion might do infinite harm to the patient. _

"_Nonsense", Holmes grumbled, "I need to."_

"_What can I do, Holmes!" Watson was deeply stirred. "It was the damned Austrian!" Even his curse seemed to be mollified for the sake of his companion's convalescence. He approached the bed on silent soles. "Give me the word and I'll go and thrash the hide off!"_

"_Dear old Watson. No, no, no, no", Holmes murmured, pacifying his trusty comrade's longing for revenge. _

"_Was it the same pair that attacked Johnson and Miss Winter?" the doctor desired to know._

"_One, maybe. The other – I doubt it", his friend remarked, sounding pensive, but more and more exhausted. "But the thought alerts me: You must contact Johnson. Tell him to find some safe hideout for Kitty. She must stay there until the danger is past."_

_Watson slightly nodded his assent. There was just the most diminutive of pauses before Holmes re-commenced talking._

"I 'ad no idea", I confessed eventually. "I mean, of course I knew ya 'ad been beaten up, but I wasn't aware it 'ad been so severe. Did it hurt very badly?"

"It constitutes one of my less happy memories", he conceded lightly. "Naturally, the pain – but it was nothing compared to the concomitant sense of defeat. Aww!" he hit his open palm with his fist. "To know these fellows threw me, and I let them get away with it – "

"Yes, yes, but tha's all in the past now", I protested, gently re-entwining his hands so that his arms were out of the way. "Ya can't possibly 'ave a greater desire for revenge on these people than I."

"I suppose not. Of course you are right, it is in the past. But the present looks hardly any brighter. How annoying this obnoxious ailment had to befall me now of all times! I shall have to alter all my plans, but my men mustn't get away. This case shall be concluded successfully – nothing is more important."

I had finished my commitment and he lay back, allowing me to cover him with the duvet. "Yes, fer sure, Mr. 'olmes. But it would serve nobody if ya met an untimely end because o' neglect, would it? Except fer the villains, that is."

"Right again. And yet, the villains must be laid by the heels. Ah, I shall have to devise some strategy…"

"Well, not jus' now", I determined, checking myself in time, for I had wanted to pass my hand over his disheveled head. Heavens, what had become of my self-preservative instincts? Perhaps it was safer for me to get out for a minute.

"Will ya excuse me, I'll jus' look after Mrs. 'udson an' yer luncheon", I muttered, leaving the room and heading for the staircase, when something from the angle of my eye caught my attention. I turned my head toward the window, and squinted my eyes. Nothing.

There again! It came from across the street, a little gleam like from sunshine on metal. I lingered for a moment, indecisive. Probably it was only the reflection of the windowpane of the opposite house. There was, however, nothing further to be discerned, so I dismissed it as meaningless and proceeded on my way to the kitchen.

"How are ye doin'?" I asked on my entering. Mrs. Hudson briefly stirred the contents of one of her pots before arranging a tray for the patient. "It is just some broth and bread, but it'll become him best, especially if he hasn't eaten in some time now. If you could take it up, I would be immensely grateful to you", she added, giving me a look that bordered on respect.

"Thank you, Mrs. 'udson." I took up the tray and hesitated. "An' sorry fer earlier on."

"It was nothing, madam", the landlady assured me. "Pray, how is Mr. Holmes?"

"'e is…"I fondly grinned at her. "'e is jus' the same as always."

"Oh, good." We smiled at each other conspiringly, and I carried my load out and one story higher, making haste because I knew how hungry he must be. Nevertheless, I halted at the door of the withdrawing room and peered out of the window to the house on the other side of the road. But the small gleam was no longer there.

**Dear dear, Mrs. Hudson truly is a sniveler. She wants to see Holmes taken care of, but she can't do it herself because he might think less of her - bah. But at least it will afford our protagonists some time together….*hearty matchmaker's giggle* weeeell! We shall see!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter twenty-one: The last sitting

22nd May 1887 _"By heaven, but this child is fair! _

_I've never seen her equal anywhere!" Goethe's Faust _

A friendly little sun peeped through in between the curtains, transforming the fine dust particles into gleaming rays of gold grains, dancing in the light and becoming invisible when the light wandered on through the room. A cup with liverleaves meanwhile adorned the bedside table, the musty fragrance reminiscent of rainy woods and damp mists rising from the humid earth.

Onto the vase, there leaned the get-well-card I had designed, out of sheer boredom to be sure. It showed the genteel, but sinister visage of Count Sylvius Negretto, by now a household name in society. I had drawn the face from off the front page of a gossip journal, and framed it in a wreath of amiably smiling skulls, assuming it would do better in raising my patient's spirits than hearts or four-leaved clover.

The scent of the wild flowers mixed with that of camphor, lingering and subsistent, from the use of bandages. They had worked well against the cold, it must be said, the sufferer was almost rid of his affliction and snored only moderately when I slipped into the chamber quietly, but not quietly enough. The faint rustle of the stack of newspapers I deposited on an empty chair alerted him, he gave a start and threw himself around in his bed violently.

"….! Kitty", he gasped, pressing a hand to his chest and inhaling deeply before he gave a brief laugh. "You _did_ startle me. I was dreaming…"

"I know", I smiled, "I've been sitting by your bedside durin' the last hour or so. You must 'ave had very upsetting dreams, you even talked in yer sleep!" Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, I gently opened a couple of buttons on his shirt to take the temperature.

"Talked in my sleep? Nonsense, I never did such a thing in my life!"

"I assure you that ya did. I could understand nothing, 'owever, you spoke in a foreign language. French, I believe."

"Indeed!" He looked mildly intrigued. "What did I say, then?"

"Are you not at all interested in the degree of your body temperature?"

"Well, it decreased quite noticeably, thirty-eight degrees I perceive."

"Thirty-eight and a half."

"Really. Just a trifle less, I should have thought. What did I communicate, then, in my sleep?"

"Ter me, it sounded like: Ley pettyts announces debdomidary. But don't hold me to it."

"_Les petites annonces d'hebdomadaire_?" he asked amusedly.

"Yes, ya repeated that several times."

"And a very good idea, too!" He was about to get up from the bed. "Now I know what I wanted to do all along. I shall go out and purchase…"

"Ya shan't go anywhere", I determined, shoving him back between his sheets. "What's it ya needs, anyways?"

"The Weekly Sun", he sulked, "and all the other journals that feature a page for agony columns. I explained their immeasurable value to you before. It is just possible that Negretto and his prospective buyer use them for communication, it is a common practice when hot merchandise is on offer."

I shook my head with a smile. "But I have long brought ya yer papers. Ya sent me out ter do so an hour ago, remember? Have a butcher's!" I indicated the bundle of journals on the chair. "They's yer beans on toast."

"And what kind of expression is that again, pray?"

I rolled my eyes. "It means the evening edition o' a paper, Mr. 'olmes."

"Does it? London slang is certainly very cryptic. After all, you too are fluent in a language that eludes my comprehension." He motioned me to hand him the papers, rustling through them with a speed afforded by practice, and tossing the dismissed ones wildly about the room.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Hmm?" He went through the pages swiftly, never looking up.

"Why is it yer talking in French in yer sleep?"

"Oh, I have lived in France a couple of years as a boy. Memories wear off, you know, but habits are persistent. Even today, some words are presenting themselves more readily in French than in English."

"I 'ave long observed you 'ave a habit o' using a French word where an English one might serve."

"Quite so. Old customs die hard. The same could be said of Count Negretto and his ilk. Wretched clever rascal!" He threw the last paper on his blanket with exasperation.

"Nothing?" I enquired cautiously.

"Nothing at all. Well, perhaps the trick has outlived itself, and the criminal intelligentsia is taking resort to more discreet means of communication." He sat in silence for some time, biting his nails.

"At any rate, we do not wanna lose sight of our principal aim, do we?" I said teasingly. "Wait, I shall give ya a nice spoonful o' cough syrup, an' it shall relent jus' loike yer snuffles…"

"Oh please, do not vex me with these silly health concerns!" He groaned peevishly. "I must have partaken of a shoe box full of pills and a champagne bottle of cough syrup! I'm weary of it! I want my pipe and my tobacco pouch!"

"You shall 'ave both", I returned swiftly, "when yer better. Meanwhile, I suggest you 'ave another li'le nap, I roused you, after all. Close yer eyes, an' I shall read you a li'le more from _Sense and_ _Sensibility_…."

"For the mercy of God, don't!" He buried his face in his pillow. "One more page of this sickening, predictable rubbish, and I shall fall asleep!"

"Whereby my purpose would be sufficiently served", I lilted, taking up the novel from the floor where he had hurled it the day before.

"Please Kitty, I am quite serious. Consider I have no means of defence, or flight. I shall be terribly, terribly bored if you continue the ghastly story, and you know what that does to my psyche."

"Yes, I do know that. What sort o' activity would be acceptable t'ya, then?"

"Anything sensible and useful. Perhaps it is the right moment to anticipate any blows the Count may by now have decided to attempt on our lives."

"Any – what?" I shrieked.

"It is but an eventuality", he replied, "but we better had be prepared for everything. Many people have as yet tried to attack me personally, and some have employed cunning, so I'm amply familiar with their means and ways. The most common device in such a case is to avail oneself of a friend, or acquaintance. For my own part, I am unlikely to see anybody before the week is out, but how is it with you?"

"I did not intend to meet anyone during the upcoming days", I replied hesitantly, "only on Friday night I will attend a reading with a friend."

"A friend – an Italian, no doubt", he quickly said.

"Yes!" I was surprised. "How did you…?"

"It is a small matter. I sent you to the library on some errand yesterday, and on your return, you had brought Dante's _Commedia Divina_ with you. You do not understand Italian yourself, but recently read the play in English, which suggests that you wanted to share the pleasure of reading with someone who was more likely to enjoy it in its original language. The nature of your envisaged evening entertainment indicated interest in literature, so I presumed your friend would be the person the book was intended for."

"You are quite right! Lorenzo is a painter from Lombardy, he lives in the Italian quarter. But there is nothing to worry about, he would never allow anyone to use him for the sake of doing me harm."

"Hum…but he will also have an eye on you, won't he? Danger may very well come from out of the blue in the nightly London streets, you know that."

I smiled, touched by his anxiety. "We are going to take a cab, an' we'll watch out fer buck cabbies. Besides, Lorenzo would give 'is life ter save mine. He always feels 'e 'as ter make up fer…" I paused and bit my lip. "He still feels guilty because…"

"Because he suggested you as an artist's model to Baron Gruner?" he surmised calmly.

I raised my head and met his gaze. It was steady and direct. I nodded slightly. "That day…that cursed day….if only it had ne'er come to that."

"Do you blame him?" he wanted to know.

"I don't…I'm telling him so all the time. He did not know Gruner, had no way of knowing what would come o' it. Still – one always wonders what would 'ave been if things had worked out differently."

I experienced the shock of my lifetime when I realized he had taken my hand, giving it a light squeeze before he let it go. His eyes still rested on me, they did not waver. I would have given much to know what was on his mind.

_Flashback…_

"_Mr. Sherlock Holmes", the solemn elderly butler announced him, stepping aside to allow him access. He entered what he thought had to be the most beautiful room he had ever seen. It was large and airy, wide windows overlooking extensive parklands that were still veiled in the fine haze of early morning._

_The furniture was select and costly, it distinctly showed signs of being influenced by far-eastern culture, but in a way that was not the least bit tawdry or romanticized. Everything breathed an exquisite, a true elegance of style, the carved room partition, the red leather club seats, the hand-made escritoire in front of the window. To the left of it, a medium seized acrylic sketch embellished the wall. It was not a portrait, the young woman in it was too obviously impersonating some legendary figure, a nymph or dryad probably. _

_She was handsome, but that was not the first thing that came to the mind of the contemplator. Her looks were somewhat – unusual, somewhat – unsettling, he could sense the living correspondent was fiery and excitable, despite the calm, overtly seductive expression of the face. Surely, the artist had told her to assume that pose, it was clearly not natural to her rather more subliminal eroticism. _

_She was lounging on her back, with shoulders supported on a large cushion, head on some bench or low wall, her dark red hair waving over her right shoulder. Someone had artistically wrapped her in some drapery of mermaid green, but it provocatively slipped down on one side, revealing a round, soft white breast. Perhaps the artist had brightened the quality of her skin, but it seemed to be of a very regular milky whiteness, without flaw, perfect. _

_In a direct line, his eyes switched from the painting to the man standing behind the escritoire, and he was struck by the dichotomies of youth and age, beauty and ugliness, attraction and repulsion. Baron Gruner was an unsightly man of approximately fifty years, with a reclining hairline and unpleasant features. What was it about him that interested, yes, fascinated young and very young women like Miss Violet Merville? He had never understood the working of the human heart, and certainly not of the female human heart, but this was too absurd. How the deuce - ?_

"_I was aware I would see you – sooner or later – Mr. Holmes", a deep rasping voice professed with just the hint of a German accent. Now, he was getting to the core of the matter. The Baron's rich, manly timbre obviously was enough to evoke not only a woman's unconditional trust, but also her admiration, her affection. Well, at least it might be a contributing factor. His being in possession of an apparently inexhaustible fortune was doing the rest, presumably._

He cleared his throat, gently asking: "Did you become his mistress immediately – if the question is not too forward?"

"Not until after the las' sitting", I whispered, "but I could see all the time he was interested…he'd come in while…Lorenzo painted me…adjust me posture of 'ead…make suggestions to improve my pose…and all the time, I was – at least partially – "

"Yes", he said quickly. "But why did you get involved with him, Kitty? I do not understand. He was – he _is_ very much older than you – might have been your father…"

I shrugged my shoulder. "I cannot give a satisfactory explanation. 'e left an impression. I was in love before the picture was completed. Age has ne'er mattered that much ter me. On the last day 'e sent away Lorenzo, but he invited me to stay, said 'e'd like ter show me 'is china collection. It was late awready, but he promised me he would 'ave 'is carriage ready if I wanted ter leave." I sighed and flashed a quick smile at my husband. "I never left that evening. We listened to 'is records, had a glass of wine or two…and so one thing led to the other…."

"I see." He did not look at me, did not want to perhaps, but it was entirely thinkable he could not. "Your parents should have watched over you better."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" I laughed, amused by his curious naiveté. "Where I come from, it is the custom that a lass looks after 'erself once she's older'n twenty, an' I 'ad been on my own for a long time awready."

"Well, I think it wrong", he said curtly. "My experience tells me this age is the most dangerous of all."

I did not know what to reply, and again shrugged my shoulders with a little laugh.

He had fallen into a brooding reverie, and I busied myself by tidying up the room and fluffing up the pillows.

"Of course!" Holmes suddenly cried out, and I made a little jump, dropping a cushion. "He'll try it by post!"

"Who?" I asked confusedly, inwardly still occupied with my past and Baron Gruner.

"Why, Count Negretto of course. He'll send something by post to achieve my removal! It has been tried a hundred times before – I have received infested tobacco, a knife on a spring and even a living bird spider. It'll be quite superfluous to mention I never taste the quite plentiful pieces of wedding cake I'm being sent by happy young couples."

"Good heavens!" I shuddered. "What a relief I 'ave not as yet opened anything terday!"

"From now on, you will lay everything that goes through our mailbox before me first", he ordered briskly. "What are you waiting for? Bring up everything! We will submit it to a most careful examination."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, of course, Mrs. Holmes", I stammered, quite unable to cope with his sudden change. He really was the most curious person. One moment, he talked to me with so much forbearance and concern as though I were his pampered, somewhat temerarious ward, the next he bossed me around as though I were one of the house maids at best.

Grudgingly, I made my way out of the sick room and over to the staircase, when suddenly my feet stopped. I blinked in amazement. There was that metallic gleam again, in the window of the opposite house! How strange that it should come and go like that. I shook my head and went down the stairs, collecting all or mail from the doormat, several envelopes, a small parcel and a postcard from Mrs. Hudson's sister, who apparently was on holiday at the Loch Lomond.

The latter I regarded as unsuspicious, but for the sake of completeness, I took it as well. Bearing the whole stuff in my arms, I re-ascended the stair and halted again in front of his bedroom door to glance back at the window. The gleam was still there, in exactly the same spot. I advanced a little to get a better view.

"What's the matter?" Holmes called impatiently. "Why don't you come in?"

"It's strange…" With a shrug of my shoulder, I moved the curtain a little out of the way. "Tha' gleam o' the sun…"

"There has never been, and will never be, something remotely interesting about a gleam of the sun. Come here at once!" he snapped inside.

"Wait…" I was now fully standing in the window. "Now I see….there is somebody…there, in the window of the opposite house…but where does that gleam stem from? It's funny, but surely the sun could not reflect on 'is face?" I chuckled at the idea. Then many things happened simultaneously.

I only heard the noise behind my back and turned around in time to see the invalid emerge from his room, to my complete surprise not with the feeble gait that would have become him, but with something rather more of a tiger's leap.

"Mr. - !" I squeaked, as he collided with me, seized and pulled me to the floor, the same time that a terribly loud bang resounded in my ears. Our window pane burst into a billion splinters, it rained glass and the envelopes fluttered all over the place. One of the chemical test tubes cracked and with an acrid sizzle poured its contents down on the carpet, luckily some feet away from where Holmes pinned me to the floor.

**Cockney: Buck cabbie – dishonest driver**

**Wheew, Kitty has yet to get used to the dangers of her new life! **

**I am quite astonished myself that she felt comfortable enough with Holmes to tell him her sad tale – and even more that he heard her out, heh! How much cannot be effected by spending a couple of days together in one room…or did he only think anything would be better than a Jane Austen reading? ;-)**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter twenty-two: At Phoebe's

22nd May 1887 _„If for six stallions I can pay/_

_Are not their powers added to my store?" Goethe's Faust_

Silence. Like a whirling tempest, the shot had harried the room and left its occupants speechless. Finally –

"Mr. 'olmes?" I croaked.

"Yes?"

"I don't think there's bird spiders in the mail."

"No", he mused, removing himself from my body which had been quite uncomfortably wedged between his and the planks of the floor, and cautiously approaching the window. "Neither do I."

I wanted to pick myself up, but he quickly signified me to remain where I was. Slowly and with infinite care, he rose to his feet, peeping out of the window without being seen himself, and then, with a rapid movement, he yanked down the blind and closed the curtains, delving the room into profound obscurity.

"You are not hurt, are you?" I heard his voice over there by the window.

"I am fine. Is it safe to get up now?"

"Indeed, but watch out, some chemicals leaked to the floor. And don't cut yourself on the splitters."

"Alroigh…" I got to my feet carefully, groping in the gloom without orientation, like a blind person.

"Have no fear." I suddenly felt his hand on my arm. "They can do nothing now."

"Why don't you turn up the light?" I whispered – and noticed that I trembled all over. The incident had given me quite a shock, after all.

"We would throw shadows on the blind, and the shooter would have an aim. No, no, it is better that things should stay like this tonight. Come, we should return to my room."

He circumspectly conducted me through the darkness, finding his way without difficulty. I breathed again only when we were in the light, and there was a heavy door between us and the fright we had experienced.

"You're shivering!" He assessed, and with a gesture if his hand bade me sit down. "You really _are _constituting a problem, my dear poor child. How far am I justified in allowing you to be in danger?"

"'t was nothing. It jus' – startled me. I wasn't prepared…"

"It was clearly a little more than that." He peered down closely on me, and as I was sitting there, I once more became aware of his considerable height, strangely disconcerting and reassuring at the same time. "Perhaps you might like to leave…spend some days time with your sister, hmm? Just until the gravest danger is over."

"No!" I said hastily. "I mean…who would look after ye during me absence? Ye'd suffer a relapse an' fade away in no time…"

"Imbecilic twaddle." Holmes buried his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown and began to stride up and down the room as was his wont when thinking, but the confined space exasperated him and with an annoyed huff, he sat down on his bed. "I'm tired of staying between the sheets in any case. I want to have the fellow arrested at last – "

"It is too early", I contradicted, nudging him to lie down properly and drawing the duvet over him. "Ya can't challenge fate after such a close escape from certain death."

"But time is running out", he mused. "Negretto may get the stone out of the country, or sell it to an intermediate. Some steps simply have to be taken."

"Is that yer main concern, currently?" I exclaimed, gesturing towards the drawing room.

"Silence!" he gnarled. "Good heavens, I can't think in here. I need to get out of this stuffy room for a while!" He pushed back the covers, and despite my protest got up, stuffing his feet into his slippers. "No, no, no, enough is enough. Unless you don't want me to get really sick, you'll let me do my work and try to interfere as little as possible." Throwing open the door that connected his room with the staircase, he eloped through it, not heeding me whom I scuttled after him. To my surprise, his feet carried him up the stairs, and he did not stop at my door, but went up yet another set of stairs.

"The attic? What in all the word could ya want up 'ere, Mr. 'olmes? Go back t'yer bed, otherwise I'll call Dr. Watson! Be sure I will!"

He turned around emphaticly slow, drawling: "_You_ will either conform to my wishes and lend me a hand in what I have to do, or else vanish from the attic. Did I make myself understood – Catherine?"

I was aware he expected me to shrink and shudder, but much as I would have liked to do him the favour, I could not. With his unruly hair, hanging over his forehead just as the ungirt dressing gown was hanging down his lank figure, he looked peculiarly young, in a fashion partly comical, partly heartwarming. I made an effort and cast down my eyes. "Yes, Mr. 'olmes. Pray, how could I make meself useful up 'ere?"

"For a start, we'd do well to procure a substitute for my person…provided you wouldn't prefer Count Negretto to launch his lethal attack on me? Ah, here it is." He had grasped a lengthy object that stuck out of a pile of debris, and in the sparse light from the roof hatch, I could discern he was dragging on a pair of feet.

"Oyy! Tha' a corpse, Mr. 'olmes?"

"Don't be so obtuse. What would I want with a corpse under my roof? It is myself modeled in wax."

"Ah! I see. D'ye wanna lead astray the shooter?"

"That would be quite unproductive. I intend to accustom Negretto to the presence of the dummy in my room – so that he won't notice when I take its place. I will use my second bedroom door and quietly hide the puppet behind an additional curtain I would like you to hang up downstairs. Thus, I will be able to overhear any conversation he may have with his confederate."

I furrowed my brow. "But I don't understand."

"That was to be expected. Take it by the shoulders! I will lead down the stairs. Careful!"

"Why do you expect the Count an' 'is ally ter call on ye?" I panted, stumbling down the stairs behind him and clinging to one end of my husband's effigy.

"Because _you_ will invite him. You will post a telegram in my name. And I need you to purchase a gramophone."

I began to believe his suffering had stripped him of even his plainer mental abilities. "Whatever do ye…"

"Look here, Kitty!" He sat down the feet of the wax figure and made me lean it against the wall at the base of the stairs. Taking out his handkerchief and roughly wiping the waxen surface of its dust layer, he explained: "I shall bank on Negretto's trust to his confederate. Presumably, if he believes me to be out of earshot, he will be more likely to let slip the hiding place of the Mazarin stone. But I won't be absent. I will be quite blatantly present without them taking notice…"

I shook my head, laughing incredulously. "Nobody would ever be taken in by such a plump trick."

"We shall see." He regarded me tauntingly. "If the Count takes me to be in my room and assiduously fiddle on my violin?"

"But hos could ye…?" I interrupted myself. "Oh."

"Ohh!" He snorted derisively. "How very like a woman. Good luck, Kitty! My share of the work is done and I shall obey your orders and betake myself to bed now."

"Mr. 'olmes!" I tugged on his sleeve before he could disappear into his room. "For which day and hour should I ask Negretto here?"

"Friday", he determined, "Friday evening."

"Could ya not make it another date? I won't be 'ere then - "

" – precisely", he uttered quickly.

oooOOOooo

"Good evening, madam – sir. May I take your coats?"

Lorenzo and I exchanged a glance, eyebrows raised. Phoebe's house was not only a fashionable city mansion at an address that virtually breathed quiet distinction, but it also commanded a butler in a pristine evening suit. The mistress of the house – she was nowhere to be seen – had had less money at her avail than either of us when last I had met with her. She had used to work as a waitress in a teahouse near Kensington Gardens, but apparently had gone from rags to riches in the meantime.

"Erm – " I said eloquently, being unaccustomed to houses with a butler at the door.

"Thank you", Lorenzo said blithely, shoving his cutaway and threadbare pashmina scarf into the man's hands. "Unfortunately, we have been waylaid by the traffic. _La lettura_ has already begun, I take it?"

"Almost over, I'm afraid, sir. This way, please…" Liberating me of my wardrobe, the butler led us through the elegant, dim-lit vestibule. I discerned a Regency suite with broadly striped upholstery in front of a white lacquered fireplace, and a large bouquet of camellias on the mantle. The walls were also decorated with white and gold, and a golden ceiling light bathed everything in a warm, soft glow. An extensive set of crystal decanters sparkled on the frail sandalwood sideboard.

"My name is Padgett", the butler remarked gravely, without waiting for an enquiry on our part. "Madam gave me instructions to usher late guests quietly into the living room, so that the reading may not be disturbed. I would therefore ask you to use the door at the back. If it is not too much trouble…?"

We assured him it was no trouble at all and sneaked into the rear of a room that was, in spite of its impressive seize, closely packed with chairs and people. It was not possible to find an empty seat, so we remained standing at the backside wall. A couple of heads had turned at our arrival, but the greater part of the attendees was oblivious to it, devoutly listening to the rather quiet, but very pleasant, unobtrusive voice. Lorenzo elbowed me and pointed to the front of the room with his chin.

I rose to the tips of my toes and glanced above the heads of the seated crowd. There was a low pedestal with a desk on it at the far end, a fair haired gentleman seated behind it, reading out an excerpt from a slim volume. His height was difficult to determine due to the fact that he was sitting, but he appeared to be quite young, my age or even younger, thought his hair was already reclining from his large forehead. He had a strong-featured, but rather aristocratic face, and his hands were talking along as he read, sparse, sophisticated movements.

Trying to catch on with his recital, I listened intently, but we had come quite too late. The only thing I could grasp was that the plot apparently revolved around some unhappy woman figure. Only from the young author's concluding words I could grasp that there were also four gentlemen, representing the values of church, gentry, law and charity. Just at the point when I became intrigued, he closed the book and the reading was at its end. People rose and clapped their hands, and the last glimpse of the writer showed me a polite smile, distinguished by a great measure of reticence.

"He'll sign books now", Lorenzo observed as the majority of the audience moved towards the desk. "You can meet him later on." He ushered me out into the anteroom, where the less enthusiastic attendants were retreating to.

"Lorenzo!" A female voice suddenly chanted above the general noise. "Here, my dear boy! Here!" We turned around and saw ourselves cornered by none other than the hostess. "Oh, how wonderful you could make it! And who have you brought with you? This is little Kitty Winter, is it possible? How quickly time is flying by!"

Time, as I had to acknowledge, had been kind to Phoebe. She was a rackety, rompy, smallish woman with lots of blonde hair that did its best to appear as if it were curled by nature, and her lips were of just a little too lively a tinge of red. However, on the whole she was quite advantageously changed from the woman she had once been. She had even managed to get rid of her accent rather nicely, I noticed with some envy. One had to listen closely to detect the trace of a slurred vowel, of a skipped consonant.

"Kitty would like to meet Mr. G-", Lorenzo returned, slightly bothered. Phoebe had a genius with people she knew only superficially, but less success with old acquaintances.

"In a minute, in a minute, my dear lad. Would you care for anything? Wine? Cognac? Whisky soda?" she almost instantly stopped, probably anxious of having let loose the waitress of Kensington Gardens. We reclined politely, and she relapsed into the role of the grand dame in no time. "And how has life treated you, dear? You look – well."

"I recently married – well", I replied with a smug smile, noticing her eyes scan my purple _sarcenet_ frock and my lovely Akoya pearls. I had six new dresses by now, all of which had been so dreadfully expensive that I was sure Mr. Holmes would nevermore rise from his sick bed, were he to become aware of it. I was myself curious about the source of her own unexpected prosperity, but was scrupulous to enquire.

"Oh, good for you!" she warbled with a large smile. "Then you must have plenty of time to indulge in your interests. Come more often, you and Lorenzo! The most illustrious people are frequenting my house – "

"Thank you", I replied non-committantly. I was quite glad that Phoebe, with her soft spot for celebrities, had not asked for the name of my husband.

"Marvellous! But – here he is! The very man! Come over here, Mr. G-! Mr. G-, you were adorable, really adorable. But dear me, don't you look tired!"

His expression was a little weary when he stepped over to join us, his expansive forehead was crinkled and his eyelids all droopy. I was surprised that Phoebe should have observed it. "Oh my, we have drawn upon you too much, I'm afraid. And here I am, bothering you with yet more people to meet!" She laughed rather over-excitedly.

"I would very much like to make the acquaintance of your friends, madam", Mr. G- replied in his agreeable, suave manner.

"How very gallant!" Phoebe clasped her hands together in front of her perky little bosom, pupils rolling heavenwards in rapture. Lorenzo also rolled his eyes, but in something closer to irritation.

"Never mind, Phoebe. We have met", he added, reaching out for the hand of Mr. G-.

"Indeed, I recall your face, Mr. Burini", the writer answered, the ghost of a smile playing around his lips.

"This is a friend of mine. Kitty Holmes", Lorenzo introduced me.

Mr. G- took my hand – in order to shake, not to kiss it. "How do you do."

"How d'ya do. I'm afraid we missed most of your reading due to bad luck", I deplored. "It sounded most engaging though. Conflicts of interest, law, charity an' all that. Are you a realist, Mr. G-? D'ya aim at presenting loife jus' as it is?"

"Nobody can present life as it is, Mrs. Holmes", Mr. G- smiled. "The French thought they could, but they were wrong, after all. If you mean, do I try to depict selected themes out of life realistically – yes, I think I do."

"And you selected the theme of the unhappy female?" I asked further.

"The unhappy _married _female", he corrected me. You are right, I assume it constitutes an important aspect of my writing, or let us not blame my writing, let us say of the society I – attempt! – to portray."

"Oh!" I smiled right into his face. "Are there so many unhappily married women in our society?"

"Indeed there are, Mrs. Holmes", he affirmed seriously. "The emancipation is to blame – the lack of it. Unfortunately, a lot of women must resort to a profitable marriage, because fortune or the means to make it are out of their hands." We had by now taken seats by the fireplace, or rather Mr. G- and I had. I quickly cast a glance at Lorenzo to see whether he was fine with that, but he just winked with a kind of comical resignation and occupied himself with Phoebe, who seemed eager to exchange news with him. Mr. G-, I realized, also watched the two musingly. His arm rested on the steep back-rest of the sofa.

"It cannot be helped", I remarked, referring to his recent statement. His eyes slowly moved back to me.

"It could be helped very well, Mr. Holmes – if man, and especially the man of the upper class, were less possessive."

"How do you mean?"

"I just wanted to explain some men get used to the idea of buying things – buy horses, buy ground, buy houses – why not buy women? It is easy. It works more often than not. And it leaved little, very little sens of obligation on the part of man."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Seems fair enough to me", I returned, a little more edgily than I had intended. "Jus' loike any other bargain. Everything in life is 'bout money, ain't it? Culture's about money an' education's about money, and for goodness' sake, sometimes even affection is about money. Why should it be different wiv marriage? Why should it be any different?"

Mr. G- leaned forward on his uncrossed knees. "You cannot buy a person, Mrs. Holmes. That is the reason why. There just are some things you _can't_ buy."

"But if a woman's life is hers", I argued, "and she means ter sell it – "

He shook his head decisively. "There is no way this could ever work. Contemplate the history of slavery. It has existed in the Americas, it has existed in ancient Rome. In both cases, it has proved unsustainable. It had to be abolished because you can't own another person. You just can't."

I watched him for a moment, careful to avoid his eyes. "You are very convinced."

"Yes." He leant back in his seat and smiled, but smiled sadly. "But you, alas, are not."

oooOOOooo

"I re'lly wonder where she did get 'er brass from", I pondered, drawing my shawl closer around my shoulders against the cold. We were sitting in the cab again, rattling through the quiet streets of Bethnal Green.

"Phoebe? Heaven knows", Lorenzo laughed. "She looked _quite_ changed. How did you like Mr. G-, _cara_? What did you two talk about?"

"This an' that", I replied brusquely. "By the way, Lorenzo, I got yer something ter read. 'ere…" I handed him the _Commedia_. "It really is amazing. I need it back in two weeks' time though, it's only leant from the public library."

"Thank you. I'll do my best. Come around and collect it yourself sometime! It's been ages that you paid me a visit."

"Alroigh. I shall", I promised merrily. We were going around a corner and were back in Baker Street.

"What's that?" Lorenzo suddenly leaned forward and peered out of the window. "Why, watcha mean?" I elbowed him out of the way and squinted my eyes. There was a police car standing in front of the house, and two constables were positioned to the left and right of number 221b. Watson's brougham was parking not far off.

"Something occurred!" Lorenzo concluded wisely, but I did not feel like explaining the situation to him.

"Let me get out…I'll be in touch…" Hopping out on the pavement, I swished up to the house and past the constables, who made but feeble attempts to hold me off.

"Inspector Lestrade!" Scotland Yard's first man descended our stairs, and I rushed up to him and anxiously seized his arm. "'as anything not gone according to plan? 'as something happened ter Mr. 'olmes? Is 'e hurt?"

The little rat-faced man shot a most surprised look at me. "On the contrary! Nothing could be concluded more successfully. Negretto has been arrested and the Mazarin Stone secured. Good night, Mrs. Holmes!"

I sent a short thanks to heaven and hurried upstairs, where I found Holmes safe and sound, as well as in good company.

"Dr. Watson!" I stopped on the threshold, oscillating with excitement.

"Good evening, my dear", the doctor smiled, shaking my hand. "You come too late to witness a triumph! I swear I never saw my friend more brilliant! But I really must beseech you – " he lowered his voice and regarded me in depth, "to inform me next time he is in any critical condition of health. I would appreciate it very much."

"Yes – I – I", drawing breath heavily, I looked from him to Holmes. "Did ever'thing actually work out as preconceived?"

"It did indeed." Holmes was seated by the fire, smugly drawing on the pipe I had refused him for so long.

"It had to work out!" Watson's eyes sparkled. "A magnificently devised plan!"

"I helped realizing it!" I hurried to observe, since Holmes was unlikely to have done so for me.

"Very well done! Though I'm sure – " the doctor turned Holmes' way with a raised brow, "the concluding practical joke does not go on your account. My dear chap, it was unnecessary, and, I'm bound to say, quite mortifying!"

"What d'ya mean?" I asked hesitantly, when Holmes made no comment.

"Lord Cantlemere", Watson explained. "Holmes did amuse himself by slipping him the Mazarin stone, thereby charging the Lord with the crime. Oh, it was merely fun, of course", he added hurriedly when he saw my expression, "though perhaps not in the best of taste. I can understand, old man, he treated you in a somewhat cavalier manner – all the same – "

I cast an astonished glance at Holmes, who, quietly puffing on his pipe, gazed into the flames, with just the hint of a grim smile on his lips.

**Heh, Holmes is a little petty here. Just because of a little flirt with the-wife- he-does-not-want-anyway – not cool. On the other hand…hummm….**

**As regards the meeting with Mr. G-, Kitty of course has to defend her status quo – the alternative would be to contempt herself. But the consequences of her decision are already beginning to haunt her. Is the world, or her world at least, really ruled by money? And how can she come to terms with the cognition that she is just some kind of merchandise?**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter twenty-three: From hell

28th May 1887 _"You just have antipathy." Goethe's Faust_

Mr. Holmes remained three more days in bed after the seizure of Count Negretto and the boxer Sam Merton. His convalescence was underway though, on Monday he went for a one hour walk, on Tuesday he again received clients, and on Wednesday, he paid me the compulsory nocturnal visit in my bedroom – for the first time since the _Incident. _

On the whole, he appeared to be back to normal and tolerably balanced, even to the point where Mrs. Hudson dared to address him tentatively. Therefore, I was not unduly surprised when one morning he broke to me that he desired me to accompany him to the City today.

"Why", I smiled at him across my coffee cup, "are ye yet again embroiled in a mortally dangerous case, Mr. Holmes? Shall you require me assistance?"

"Oh no, not to worry. It is just the extremely cumbrous fact that I am unfortunate enough to live in the calling distance of Mycroft, and thus appear to be at is beck and call. He mentioned you", he continued, nonchalantly waving a slip of telegram in front of my eyes, "and I thought it appropriate to introduce the two of you. He is my brother, after all."

I set down my cup and contemplated that. Time and time again, I had heard from Dr. Watson of his memorable encounters with the singular and mysterious personage that was Mycroft Holmes. My curiosity was naturally roused. As a matter of fact, I had envisaged calling on Lorenzo today as he had asked me to do, but I could not very well deny Mr. Holmes to meet his next of kin. It would certainly have left a strange impression if I had, and I was under obligations to attempt the semblance of – well – normality. So I nodded.

"Splendid. Please be ready in the quarter of an hour. I shall just check on my morning correspondence – ", he reached for a bundle of letters the landlady had brought up along with our breakfast, "then we can start."

Walking slalom among the furniture, he ripped open the envelopes with long, nervous fingers, briefly glancing over each message. I dabbed my mouth with the napkin and rose, going to get my hat and overcoat. As I overstepped the threshold, I could just hear the savage thwack with which Holmes fixed his discarded mail against the mantle with a jack knife.

oooOOOooo

He talked little during our drive to Whitehall, but then he was not usually affluent of words. When he knocked the roof of the cab with the top of his cane, we drew up in front of a black cast-iron gate that afforded access to one of those large, not to say enormous buildings that huddled together in Pall Mall, like white marble blocks in a child's toy set.

"The Diogenes Club." Mr. Holmes remarked as we alighted and passed the gate. "I believe you have heard about this curious institution?"

"I have. Dr. Watson mentions it several times in his memoires."

"I am, once more, grateful to the doctor's conscientious literary thoroughness. Mind you", he reminded me, "as a woman, you will not be granted access to the club. But we can talk to Mycroft in the stranger's room. Ah, here we are!"

We had been admitted by a footman who looked at me extremely askance, and ushered up to a desk in what was a heavily be-marbled, be-planted anteroom.

"Mr. Holmes!" The man at the reception greeted my husband. "Mr. Holmes is expecting you. Please to follow Edward – silently, of course, silently! And madam – " He turned to me, frowning, obviously unsure of what he was supposed to do with me.

"Madam will follow – also silently and as good as invisible", Holmes sneered, "do not concern yourself. Kitty!" he significantly put a finger to his lips. "Come."

Almost on tiptoe, I went after him and the footman, looking around in dumb amazement. Phoebe's house had been elegant, yes – but the Diogenes oozed something different, something inducing respect or rather – a sense of intimidation. The wide stairs, the crimson wallpaper, the large Gainsborough reproductions struck me with awe. Only in the far corridor, flanked by stone busts and floored with marble, did I notice that the footman wore soft felt galoshes that absorbed the smallest sound, leaving me all the more embarrassed and painfully aware of the – as I perceived it – dreadful noise my heels produced. Holmes, on the other hand, seemed fairly unimpressed and did not care about the trenchant clattering of his patent leather shoes. Then the corridor was at an end and we were shown into a large room, obviously intended for Mycroft's private use alone.

"Close the door, Edward", I heard a high, peculiar, but unmistakably male voice. I winced a little, having taken the room to be empty, but there, at the far end, actually was someone, leaning over a large atlas and turning his back on us. "Advance."

I did as I was told, while my husband remained where he was and took off his ulster placidly. I halted only when I was next to the bending man, and only then did he turn around. "Well, well, well…so you are Catherine…my dear new sister."

From the very first moment, I loathed Mycroft Holmes. There was something utterly repellent for me in the haggard face, the long thin nose, the eyes that seemed as cold as two dull glass panes in an early January morning.

"'ow nice ter meet ya", I rasped – I, who had spoken almost without a flaw for the whole week.

"How – _nice_ – indeed." His lips curled as he reached for my hand, and I had the terrible feeling of putting it into a mousetrap that would snap shut any moment, and was profoundly relieved when he let go off it. He watched me for one, two, three uncomfortable seconds longer, before his frock tails indifferently swished past me as he approached his brother. My eyes warily followed his famished bird-like figure. He was taller than Sherlock, this struck me instantly. I do not know why.

"How exceedingly good of you to come. I hear you have been ailing as of late?" It had a quizzical sound to it. Disgusting. Disgusting.

"I am fine, thank you", Sherlock replied stiffly.

"Well, you certainly look it!" Mycroft flashed him a mocking smile, and then glanced at me, in a way I did not like. Did not like at all. "And how lovely you could bring along my in-law – what a charming, interesting lady", he proceeded, in a tone that clearly indicated I was none of those things, or was it in a wrong way, presumably. "My congratulations. Though I was obliged to register I have not received an invitation for the nuptials."

"It was a short-no'ice ceremony", I explained hastily, hoping not to risk my head by talking. "And rather quiet. We wanted nobody there."

"You amaze me." Mycroft's lips curled more pronouncedly, maliciously. "Romance!"

And then I saw something very curious. Sherlock, his lips tightly pressed together, was staring at the floor. Just stood there and stared at the floor. All of a sudden, infinite compassion welled up in my bosom. Was he – intimidated by his brother? Was he scared of him? Or why could he not raise his eyes and meet his? It seemed inconceivable. He had ever seemed so strong to me, even during his sickness – always masterful – always superior – was it actually possible that he cast his eyes down in front of somebody else?

"I _am _glad you could make it, anyway", I heard Mycroft through the haze of my rumination, and the hairs on my nape seemed to rise with distaste, "for I wished to council with you over an affair that is beginning to assume alarming proportions. I must admit to being a little surprised you abandoned the Whitechapel murder case, especially in the light of the most recent tragedy – "

"What!" Sherlock blurted out, his keen eyes darting up to his brother's face at last.

"Dear me, have you not heard? I thought you kept in touch with the official forces?" Mycroft smirked. "Of course I can understand you have had other things on your mind lately", he continued with a false indulgence that made me nauseous, "but I'm afraid our murderer has not treated himself to some rest in the meantime. Here!" He took up a bundle of paper documents and shoved it under Sherlock's nose. "The police report."

"She featured the same mutilations as the other victim, I presume?" My husband quickly and eagerly ran over the pages.

"Quite right. Annie Chapman had neither breasts, nor her uterus, nor anything that would identify her as a woman when they discovered her. But that is not all." He sat a gold-rimmed pair of glasses on his fleshless nose and lifted a short note to his eyes. "This was conveyed to the office of the Central News Agency in the small hours of the morning. Listen:

_From Hell_

_Mr. Lusk_

_Sor_

_I send you half the kidne I took from one woman and prasarved it for you tother I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer_

_Signed_

_Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk. _"

"May I see it?" Sherlock asked calmly, and Mycroft negligently tossed the note over to him. My husband had hardly glanced at it when he exclaimed: "Why, it's a hoax! And not a very crafty one. Done by a young asthmatic journalist attached to the sensational press, I perceive."

Mycroft lightly raised his eyebrows. "It certainly is. But how did _you _find out?"

"That is beside the point. I take it, then, that you want me to pursue the case?"

"Do I not have a most shrewd little brother?" Mycroft scoffed, turning my way. I could say nothing. Every time his eyes met mine, my alarm bells rang _Evil Evil Evil_, and I swallowed hard. Also, I had felt myself pale when he had read out the appalling letter. And he noticed that. Of course.

"Oh my dear, would you perhaps like a drink – something to fortify the nerves? Sherlock, would you like to partake of something? It is irksome", he regretted, "that I have sent Edward away, for the electric bell does not seem to work in here lately. Perhaps you wouldn't mind to go and order some sherry while we – " he indicated himself and his brother, "are discussing the particulars?"

I agreed wordlessly, feeling like a child that is being sent away so that the adults may converse without restraints. Directing a last, timid glance at my husband as I passed him, I left the two men alone and on tiptoes went back all the way we had come. On the stairs I met with a waiter, who, very forthcoming, promised to bring up the drinks as soon as possible. Since my mission had been fulfilled so promptly, I ambled back slowly, assuming they did not wish me to return so soon. But it was lonely and boring in the great marble corridor, and I could do nothing but idly examine the stone busts. In a corner, between two bases, I observed that one of the footmen had forgotten his felt overshoes. An idea entered my head – doubtlessly a foolish one.

I slipped the soft things on my feet, and like on wad pads slinked back to the door of Mycroft's study. They were still conversing in there, I could indistinctly hear their alternating voices. Without causing the slightest creak, I opened the door just wide enough for me to peep through a narrow gap. Mycroft briefly passed through my field of view, apparently he was walking up and down, though in quite a different manner from Sherlock's pronouncedly outright gait. Mycroft virtually _prowled_, his movements resembling those of some sly beast. He again passed my focus, now in the opposite direction. My husband I could not see, but I heard him clear as a bell.

" – do not see what it could matter to you", he said, with a very cool inflection to his tones. "I'd appreciate if we could just return to business…"

"As you will, my dear boy. As you will. _I _do not blame you, certainly not…she is a nice girl, and pretty, too. Oh, I have no doubt she can be quite amusing for you, occasionally", he chuckled disgustingly, "but on the whole, truth be told, rather more than vulgar. Of course, if that's to your taste – "

"Be quiet", Sherlock suddenly said, "be quiet."

I thought I could discern a slight trepidation in his voice. Mycroft, presumably surprised by the interruption, kept silent for a moment, and then laughed heartily. "Touching, my lad. Touching. Of course, success with the ladies is not a gift that runs in our blood. Though I must admit, you seem to possess more of it than I do – just think of dear old grandmother – how she _adored_ you…"

"Don't talk about her", Sherlock said flatly.

The trepidation was now distinctly perceivable. My compassion welled up even stronger than before, it left a strangely confining sensation in my chest. I understood – oh, I understood now. It was not fear Sherlock showed to his senior – he hated him. Hated him as much as I did, and more. I felt close to him, all of a sudden, as if this were something that united us, somehow. And at the same time, I pitied him so infinitely, because he had been hurt, I did not know how, but I could hear it. Mycroft's words had affected it. But he was not satisfied yet.

"I do not see why I shouldn't, there's nothing wrong with that. She liked you immensely. I, on the other hand, always rather sought the friendship of men, and they have sought mine – like father, for example. Unfortunately, he did not really seem to appreciate _your _company – "

"Hold your tongue", Sherlock returned, heavily breathing, and I bit my knuckles so that I did not have to cry out in anguish. "Stop it or I will – I swear – "

No, that was too much. I retreated some steps, cast off my overshoes and quickly, with firm steps, marched into the study where the conversation immediately died. Bold and unimpressed though I tried to appear, I was profoundly unsettled and anxious. I did not dare to look at my husband. Instead, I addressed Mycroft, curtly observing: "Yer sherry'll be up shortly, sir."

He inclined his head as an answer. The silence persisted for one more moment. "Come", Sherlock finally said. He sounded weary. "We're leaving."

I quickly looked back at Mycroft, and in his eyes I saw that he knew everything: The bargain, the arranged marriage, the humiliation, the lies, probably even that I had eavesdropped at the door. He bowed slightly, still with that cynical smile that seemed to mock my whole person.

"Au revoir", I said. It was the only word of goodbye that was to be heard. Sherlock was out of the room before I actually realized it. He was well ahead of me all the way back through the club, and on the stairs also.

"Wait fer me!" Only when we were in the open air did I catch up with him. I rushed to his side and solicitously grasped his arm. "Oh, Mr. 'olmes…oh I am so terribly, terribly sorry…"

"Don't touch me!" he hissed, angrily shaking me off. "You're being presumptious!"

"I – jus' wanted ter console you – "

"Console me?" He looked down at me, arrogantly beyond belief, but it did nothing to deceive me. "Pray what are you talking about?"

"Never mind, Mr. 'olmes." I shrugged my shoulders, slightly hurt. "Goin' back 'ome?"

"No – " he slipped his hand into his pocket, "I shall remain in the City, I have business to do. You can drive home if you like. Here, find yourself a cab." And he wanted to give me a one-pound note. I recoiled, I do not know what made me, but I winced from the note as if it were a poisonous serpent. "Take it!" He snarled.

"I don't need a pound ter get 'ome", I protested, "the cabbie'd tip 'is fore'ead if I gave 'im this. Besides, I couldn't possibly – "

"Regard it as a reimbursement for your time", he gibed.

"No – I don't want ter – "

"Now take the blasted money, Kitty!" He almost shouted at me. "Can't you see I am in a hurry – "

"I don't want it", I declared, crossing my arms before my chest and raising my nose with determination.

"Fine!" he spat, "then walk on foot!"

"Yeah, p'raps I will!" I yelled after him as he departed on the sidewalk, disappearing in the crowd of businessmen, politicians and governmental clerks. Tears pricked in my eyes. I had just behaved like an exemplary street urchin. Was it true what Mycroft had said about me? Was I really vulgar? Was I no lady after all?

oooOOOooo

My anger had dissipated as quickly as it had built up, and left only commiseration. I felt deeply for him. Sure, Annie was unpleasant, but I would have tolerated two of her kind much rather than one sibling like Mycroft Holmes. He was infinitely worse. And Sherlock had been so affected. I did not dare to show in front of him for the rest of the day, though, something seemed to prohibit it strictly.

I had dinner with Mrs. Hudson, helped her wash the dishes and afterwards dragged myself back up the stairs. However, on the first landing, something made me stop. It was music. He was playing his violin! Stepping closer to the door, I made myself a spy for the second time in one day.

The music in the beginning was wild and adventurous, and I thought of liberty and green hills and rivers running free. But soon it calmed down to a – yes, to a pained, deeply melancholic sadness of sound. Some notes were dark and sonorous, others high and plaintive, in a way so heart-wrenchingly beautiful that it literally hurt deep inside my bosom. I could not imagine where such profound sadness might stem from. Something urged me to go in and again offer consolation, to do anything. But my head told me it would be a mistake. So I stood. And listened.

It seemed like a long time – an hour, perhaps. Only when the music suddenly stopped and I heard him put down his instrument with a deep sigh, did I depart to my quarters.

**So, that was Mycroft. As you may have observed, he's not a very likeable character in this story. It is an uncommon depiction, and, as I must admit, not quite my own idea. As a child, I was deeply impressed by Christopher Lee's performance, who portrayed Mycroft as a latently evil person that would enjoy inflicting pain on his younger brother. It is in no shape based on canon, but I find it works well with what I have dreamt up about Sherlock's (familial) past. Oh my…guess who'll be left to pick up the pieces in the end?**

**Love, Mrs. F**


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter twenty-four: Complementary

29th May 1887

„_Ye choirs, do ye the hymn of consolation sing…."Goethe's Faust_

I woke late after having lain sleepless half the night. It would not grow clear to me how this relationship with Mycroft had come to be so – precarious. Certainly, the man was loathsome, I could vouch for that, but they were brothers and surely met at some point or other. So why this reaction to him? Did Mycroft possess some actual hold over my husband? Had there been at some time a quarrel, and a rupture, or had it been always like this between them?

I became aware of how little I really knew about Sherlock's life before we had met. I was certain that if I did, it would help me understand him better. Why could he not open up to me, a little at least, like he had done during his illness? Why did he not trust me? We had been friends at some point. Well, had been. Past tense.

Once more, I spent the day in a cat- and-mouse game in order to avoid him, I could not forget the treatment he had given me the day before. It was entirely unlikely that he would be glad to see me, and I certainly did not wish to see him. So I kept out of his way, took a long walk in Regent's Park and bought some treats for Ginger Jack. It did not, however, suffice to distract my thoughts, they would continually return to him in the most annoying fashion.

Heavens, why was it my lot to have to deal with this twisted family? Provided they all were – or had been? – like that, of course. Which directed me back to my initial chagrin: I knew too little about his private concerns to calculate the situation. If I even dared to approach him, I knew he would most likely shout at me again and call me presumptious. So whom could I ask? I was almost back home when a red cross car rattled over the cobble stones sharply in front of me, and I had to jump back quickly. It would not do to get myself killed because of abstraction, I determined, and moreover, the medical vehicle had been as good as an intuition. I waved at the next cab that presented itself to me, and drove off.

oooOOOooo

_John Watson, Dr. med. _

_Consulting hours Monday-Friday 8am-5pm_

The shiny brass badge read, on the whitewashed wall next to the door. It was after five o'clock, so I did not hesitate to press the bell-button, and after some waiting was ushered in by a maid I presumed to be Mary Jane, a girl the doctor had always much complained about.

"Miss – Mrs. Holmes!" When surprised, Watson still tended to call me Miss Winter. Now he put away the short pipe he had been about to stuff, and rose to shake my hand.

"Ever so formal, Dr. Watson", I smiled. "Would you not like to call me Kitty? Your wife does, so there can be no harm in that."

The doctor smiled back, and it did me worlds of good to be the recipient of some kindness. "If you wish it, I shall be happy to. Pray, sit down and tell me what I can do for you."

"Oh, I jus' was in the area an' so I thought I'll drop by", I observed emphatically careless. I did set value on appearing as casual as possible. My trust in Watson was almost without boundaries, and yet there were things I could not possibly let him know. So better not seem too much affected.

"So – this is a social visit? I am delighted. Pray let me call Mary, I'm sure she would also be glad to see you. She is currently in the kitchen, observing the dinner being made – "

"Oh no, better don't disturb her", I said hurriedly. "Actually, I wanted ter tell ya, no, ter ask yer opinion on 'un particular matter."

"Indeed? You fill me with curiosity."

"I met someone yesterday", I explained, "Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock took me to meet him at the Diogenes club…" I gave the doctor a detailed, but severely censored account of what had occurred.

"Yes", he said when I had finally told all, "yes I understand what you mean, and believe me, I have witnessed similar scenes, though only rarely. There assuredly is no very warm feeling between those two."

"But what could be the meaning of it?" I spluttered. "Why are they antagonists? What drove them apart?"

"Hum – I can hardly tell. But – " he gave me an indulgent look that was just the tiniest bit searching, "had you not better ask your husband instead of coming to me?"

"I tried to, but then he became so angry and rude and I…jus' couldn't. I thought perhaps you could tell me what it's all about."

"I regret very much that I cannot. But surely you are exaggerating a bit with your anxieties?"

"It upset him!" I exclaimed. He regarded me in astonishment. With a groan, I reached up to my forehead. "Oh Doctor Watson, I can't be easy in my mind until I know what's tormenting him! Surely it must be some ghost from the past, and Mycroft stirred up memories. Perhaps an old wound….a dalliance gone awry…."

"I know myself only little about Holmes' life prior to our acquaintance", Watson said slowly, "and most of what I learned is included in my memoires, and in consequence common knowledge."

"Nonetheless!" My head shot up eagerly. "Tell me all you know, I beg you!"

"Very little, really. I am aware of the approximate location of his father's – Nathaniel Holmes' – manor in Lancashire, where he was born and brought up. I know the mother's maiden name was Violet Sheridan, and that there was a grandmother on the paternal side, who at some point took the boy to stay with her family at Paris a couple of years. There, that is all. There was never mention of a falling-out with his brother or – "

the idea seemed to alienate him, " – a _dalliance, _and I assure you they are mere chimeras of your imagination. I can comprehend your interest, though",

he reached for his tobacco pouch and eventually stuffed his pipe, "for it is also an object of my curiosity. There was a time when I had the ambitious plan to write Holmes' biography, but it failed because of his being not very forthcoming on this point. He always disliked talking about himself, though I am sure there is no secret whatsoever in his past. He even relinquished all his memoranda to me, photographs and the like."

"Oy! Can I see them?" I sat bolt upright, but Watson furrowed his brow discouragingly.

"I'm afraid not….tough I'm sure I still have them somewhere. But at present…."

"Never mind", I sighed. He watched me one more moment and then leaned forward to grasp my hands.

"Listen Kitty, you are just seeing snakes, I am sure. I know Holmes and I know he is very well capable of solving his own problems, though it is nice to see you so caring. I must ask you not to let this interfere with the two of you being happy. As I'm sure you are."

I blushed profoundly, trying not to look elsewhere.

"So, now you know my opinion. But if you should at any tome find yourself in doubt again – "

He ceased talking when a brisk step approached from the hall. "John? Ah!" Suddenly Mary stood in the doorframe. "Now look who's here!"

I smiled broadly. "Good evening, Mary. How's yer dinna doin'?"

"Oh, it is just fine. I just said to cook: Who do you imagine is going to eat all of those dumplings? It really is a stroke of luck you dropped by!"

"It is kind o' you, but I did not intend ter stay – "

"Oh please, do not disappoint me!" she pouted. "We rarely have dinner guests, and John is so dull – "

"Mary!" Watson exclaimed aghast.

" – anyway, I will not accept a 'no'", she concluded smartly. "You need to keep us some company – was that the door?"

Indeed it was, for little later, Mary Jane showed her plump face in the parlour. "Someone to see you, doctor."

"Who is it?" Watson asked, a little short of patience.

"I don't know, doctor."

"Did he not give a name? Why did you not show him in? Oh, well – " he sighed and got up, "I shall go myself. The ladies might like to be left alone for a while. I am _dull_, after all…."

"Is he re'lly?" I asked when he was gone. "I never found 'im so."

"He is, but a treasure in every other respect. Look what he gave me for my birthday!" She whirled around, and, arms dramatically extended, indicated a beautiful, dainty piano forte, the key board covered with a red runner and little tiffany lamps left and right of it.

"It is lovely! I di'n't know ya played?"

"You did not know I was a governess for most of my life, did you? Music is a very sought-after qualification with most employers these days."

I was already leafing through the notes on top of the instrument. "Can you play this one?"

She sat down on the stool, glancing at the song. "Why not, it's not difficult. Let's give it a try. Put the notes in front of me, please?" I bend over her shoulder to read the lyrics as she began to play the bold tune.

"_Men of Morganwg, rise against the foe!/_

_Send him hence or lay him low/_

_Leave all your books, your pasture and your plough/_

_Gird on weapons, join us now!/_

_Morgan calls you, bids you with him stand/_

_Drive the raiding Saxon from this fair land."_

Mary's voice was deep and dark and warm, I liked it extremely. When she had ended and bridged to the second strophe, she nodded for me to take over.

"_Men of Marganwg, rise to liberty!/_

_Cymru now shall soon be free/_

_With her own language, singing her own songs/_

_Righting all her conqu'ror's wrongs/_

_Morgan calls you, bids you with him stand/_

_Drive the raiding Saxon from this fair land."_

My voice was much higher and less suited to such a song. Still, Mary started to applaud me, cheering: "Well done!" And she was, to both our surprise, joined by Watson, who had returned and stood quietly by the door. He was not alone, by the way. Though Mary and I looked at each other and laughed away the embarrassment, I inwardly kicked myself for not having guessed the identity of the caller earlier, in which case I would have kept my mouth shut!

"How do you do, Mrs. Watson. I must own you are a very accomplished singer", Holmes said, gravely inclining his head to her.

"Oh, but Kitty as well!" Watson enthused. "The two of you would sound adorable together. You're almost complementary to each other."

Holmes' eyes bored into mine with the speed of light. "I did not expect to find you here, Kitty."

"Nor I you. I taike it I did no'ing improper in calling 'ere?" Even to me, my words sounded disproportionally snappish.

"No", he answered blankly. "I do not think you did."

Silence. I observed the smile of the Watson's had become a little rigid. Mary had lowered her eyes to the floor. "Well!" Watson said eventually. "Would you be so kind and check on what cook is doing, my dear? Hopefully you don't mind our inviting Kitty for dinner, dear chap", he continued towards Holmes, "and of course you must also stay. Mary is always so happy about guests…"

oooOOOooo

"So, how are you spending your days, dear Kitty?" Mary enquired serenely. "As for myself, I used to be accustomed to early rising and hard work, and was quite at a loss what to do with my time when I married John. Cook and the maid are doing all the work in the house, and we have no children to look after."

"Oh, there's always something ter do", I replied lightly. "I must confess I have never been what you would call a hard worker, so I 'ave no trouble a' all whiling away extra leisure. I rarely get bored."

"Oh, Mary is rather active just now, you know", Watson interjected. "She does a lot of charity work for _Seamen's _and the Wall Street Mission."

"Really?" I immediately developed a bad conscience and an inferiority complex to go with it.

"Why yes, I'm doing this and that and everything when required. At present, I'm acting as a substitute for one of the teachers at a beneficial girl's school in Elephant and Castle."

"What do you teach the girls?"

"Mostly music and needlework. And foreign languages to the older ones – French, German, Italian."

"How nice! I would also very much like ter do something useful. Compared to yers, my means o' distraction seem rather shallow. Perhaps ya could find me some sensible function as well?"

"Hear, hear!" Watson cried approvingly, but Holmes merely groaned.

"Now please Kitty, do not feel obliged to contribute to our amusement. What would you be able to teach the children? The enigmatic idiom of cockney?"

Silence again. The Watsons had again resorted to their forced placidity, with him gazing up at the ceiling as if there were something particularly capturing to be seen, and her toying with little objects on the table. I stared straight into Holmes' eyes, where I read the cognition that he had gone too far. It was indeed a relief when dessert was served.

"I say, Holmes", Watson remarked, digging his spoon into his _crème brûlée_, "we have seen little of you lately. I presume your visit is foreboding some terrible crime?"

"Not foreboding, my good Watson. The crime has long been committed. No doubt you will recall my prophesy that the Whitechapel murder would entail other acts of gruesome viciousness?" and he recounted what we had learned from Mycroft on the previous day.

"Good Lord!" The doctor ejaculated when he had ended. "This man has to be found as soon as possible. If I were you, I would apply all my power to this quest. What did you detect so far?"

"Not much, I fear. The witnesses' reports are confused, they always are in those quarters. But there have been fresh developments. Listen to this: - " he rummaged around in his pocket and finally extracted a scrap of paper.

"_Dear Boss,  
>I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the <em>_right__ track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper __red__ stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope __ha. ha.__ The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck._

_Yours truly  
>Jack the Ripper<em>

_Dont mind me giving the trade name_

_PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. __They say I'm a doctor now. __ha ha."_

„Oh my!" Watson's eyes had widened considerably during the recital. "But – is it a hoax again? Or is it genuine this time?"

"I have little to no doubt that it is forgery, but there is no tangible corroboration to my surmise."

"Well…at least the slaughter has some kind of sobriquet now."

"Certainly, but cannot you see what this means?"

"It means that I won't want my dessert anymore", Mary said, putting down her spoon with a pronounced clank. "Come Kitty, let us withdraw to the parlour, and the gentlemen shall be free to continue their less than savoury conversation all by themselves…"

oooOOOooo

"I re'lly must apologize", I said abashedly when Mary Jane had left us after serving two _cafés noirs._ "My husband is so much absorbed in 'is work that he forgets all 'bout decorum an' good manners sometimes. It is very mortifying fer me…"

"Oh dear, John is hardly any better", Mary laughed, "and not only today. You cannot imagine the amount of surgical details I have been vexed with during dinner these four years."

"All the same…it was very impolite and I must apologize fer 'im."

Mary ceased laughing and pensively stirred her coffee with a tiny silver spoon. "Kitty", she suddenly said, "the last thing I would want is to appear inquisitive, but you know…John and I have sometimes wondered…whether everything is right between you and Sherlock. Of course, I don't know either of you very well, but John…"

I felt my jaw tighten. "Why do you ask?"

"I hardly know…his gibe at your expense during dinner…and you always seem so distant – so ignorant of each other."

"You 'ave heard me conversation wiv John earlier on", I stated, without even an attempt at accusation. Mary blushed all the same and looked into her cup.

"Only some of it – I caught a phrase of yours implying that you knew too little about him, and I thought…"

"Mary", I sighed somewhat petulantly, "d'ye think anyone could ever claim to know Sherlock intimately? 'e is an exceedingly private and very difficult companion, I must admit – and oftentimes we quarrel, we 'ave our disagreements to be sure. But there is nothing – nothing, I say! – for you ter worry about. I assure you there ain't."

And she seemed to believe me. My heart ached at the monstrosity of my lie, and all of a sudden, I felt an almost overwhelming urge to confess – to tell her all. But I could not. For once, I was afraid of losing her esteem. And for another, I had vowed to maintain secrecy to Mr. Holmes.

**Uuuh no. The façade is crumbling after only six weeks of married life. If they want to keep it up, they'll have to pull themselves together and make some effort to that effect! A baby would come in extremely handy now…**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter twenty-five: The picture of Catherine Holmes

29th May 1887 _"Let me but briefly gaze once more into the glass/ Ah, too fair seemed that woman's form!" Goethe's Faust_

On the following day, I went to Lorenzo's place. I was received in a studio that was worse in respect to order than even my husband's rooms. I could mostly see dried-up paint tubes, encrusted brushes, new frames of canvas, painted frames of canvas, a large unoccupied easel and amidst all, the painter in a less than formal attire.

"Did you make it?" I asked, indicating the book I beheld on a stool in a corner.

"Hum? Oh no, no, not nearly."

Taking up the volume and scanning its back, two or three larger splotches of paint caught my eyes. "Awright. You may keep it", I sighed, returning it to its repository.

"Kitty!" He had already vanished into his forest of canvases. "Come have a look!"

I made my way through the artistic wilderness, until I found him in front of a large picture done in the best Tintoretto style, featuring a crowd of nude men and women in a classical landscape. "What do you think, eh?"

I cocked my head to the side. "Ya knows I always like whatcha do, Lorenzo. You were successful in yer search fer new models, I perceive?"

"Quite true – but it was irritating, all the same. I felt like a white-slaver, I can tell you. Bargaining with parents and employers whether I'd be allowed to paint their precious girl…"

"This one seems familiar", I remarked, pointing at an opulent blonde to the left hand margin of the picture.

"Ah yes, Betsy. My landlord's maid. And I think you must recall Marcella – I once did a sketch of you both." His black eyes slowly turned away from the canvas, and, wandering towards me, assumed the mournful expression that told me what was to come. _"Mia carina – _I am to blamefor your misfortune, whatever you may say, I know it. You were a magnificent model, and I spoilt it all for you – your career – your - life."

"No, no, no!" I strenuously put a hand to his mouth and pressed it shut. "I don't wish ter 'ear yer 'pologies. You never told me ter start wiv Gruner. It was my own, my very own choice and I am the person responsible, I alone! Please, could you jus' stop it? I'd prefer to forget."

He looked at me and sighed wistfully, raising his hand to my cheek and lightly stroking it. "I can understand. It is just so terribly, terribly sad…you always were my favourite, and just now I would so like to paint you…as a nymph…as an amazon…no matter what. I am even on the verge of asking you to sit for me in clothes."

I chuckled a little. "That sounds as if that were a frightful insult. I 'ave no objection. I 'ave plenty of time ter waste, you know. Not that this would be a waste of time, of course."

He did not listen to me, already dragging aside a breezy curtain that revealed a grand looking-glass. "This is going to be an experiment", he muttered under his breath, taking me by the shoulders and guiding me in front of the mirror, "but I think it's going to be good – very good. If you would please take off your clothes?"

I wrinkled my nose. "Lorenzo…I am ugly…"

"Nonsense _cara_. You could be many things, but never that. However, if you are more comfortable with that, you may keep on your undergarments."

"You want to paint me in my underthings?" I asked with disbelief.

"Why not? Imagine! We could set you in scene as _Nana_, or any luxurious concubine for that matter. Don't you see the glamour of that concept?"

"Yes," I agreed hesitantly, "it might work – "

"Of course it will. Trust me." He reached up to my hair. "May I?"

"Yes, sure."

I stood still until he had removed all my hair pins, and my tresses were curling down my back. Lorenzo stroked them to the front, examining my reflection in the mirror critically. "Yes, open is definitely better. I had first thought of a chignon like in that Manet picture – but no, no. It looks more decadent this way." He stepped aside and started to browse the room for a lead pencil and his sketch book.

I slipped out of my jacket and skirt. I dropped my belt to the floor. I opened the buttons of my blouse. The clasp of the necklet was difficult.

"Let me." He had re-emerged from the chaos without premonition, softly drawing my fumbling hands from my nape. Snap! And also that was gone. I stood in front of the mirror in my corset and pantaloons. Behind me, Lorenzo carefully put the necklet away before he returned to the scrutiny of my hair.

"Spread it over the shoulders, please. Good. Good. You see? No trace of your impairment. This neckline is perfect – shows some bust but still conceals the scars. A little more hair to the left, please. Tilt your head."

We experimented for about one hour until we had found a pose that pleased us both. Lorenzo took a seat and produced a quick series of sketches with slight variations of my position. Finally he put away the pencil and closed his book with a snap. "That will do for today, Kitty. It's of no use to proceed too far before we know whether it will come to my painting you at all."

I raised my eyebrows. "Why should it not?"

He flashed me a quick look of surprise. "Surely, you will wish to obtain your husband's permission before embarking on such a delicate undertaking?"

"Yes", I replied, astonished that I had never given a thought to Holmes' opinion on the matter. "Yes, I shall have to ask him first, I guess."

"Certainly. You have no idea what a relief it is for me not to have to do it myself for once. But watch the clock – is it that time already? _Avanti!_ If we want to have tea at the _Café Greco_, we shall have to hurry up a little. Put on your things, you can leave your hair down. It's just the _Greco_, after all. _Andiamo, andiamo!_" He donned his hat and hurried both of us out of his flat.

oooOOOooo

Once upon a time, Lorenzo and I had been regular customers of the _Café Greco_. However, I had not been there since before my term of imprisonment, and looked around curiously to see whether it had changed – it had not. Still the same plushy green curtains, the same travertine floor, the headless female sculpture in the corner and the same Pre-Raphaelites on the wall. Tea was served at regular hours, but also coffee delicacies, and Lorenzo held his daily espresso sacred. I ordered peppermint tea and crumpets, and copiously took off my black straw hat. He was sketching yet again.

"Lorenzo", I murmured in a hushed voice, "look who sits over there, in the booth."

"Uh? _Cielo_, of course he is here. Comes almost every day to write for one, two hours. Strange fellow he is – but amiable, I should think. Now look here, _cara_. What do you say to this draft? You turning away, three-quarter-profile, reaching for something on the washstand. Several toilet articles with beautiful light reflexes – perhaps a flower or two in a glass – the hint of your face in the mirror. Isn't it dazzling?"

I skeptically scrutinized the sketch, which particularly accentuated the curve of my backside as I slightly stooped over the washstand, a loose strand of hair picturesquely curling down my face I turned it up at the looking glass.

"I'll 'ave ter do a hollow back for hours. I'm goin' ter 'ave a frightful pain in my back."

"Ah, but it'll be worth it!" He beamed and again focused his attention on the piece of paper in front of him.

"I think I'll ball over an' say g'day", I remarked.

"_Scusi_? Oh yes – yes, do…."

I rose and approached Mr. G-, who solitarily sat in one corner of the Romanized café, pen in his hand. His forehead was crinkled with thought, but it smoothed out when he raised his glance and observed he was no longer alone. "Mrs. – Holmes, isn't it? I am glad to see you again so quickly. Pray, have a seat."

"I can – only a moment – " I apologetically nodded to where Lorenzo was sitting, absorbed in his craft.

"Yes, of course. Cigarette? You do not smoke? Well, good for you."

"You are writing something new?" I enquired, indicating his work in progress.

"Hardly new, Mrs. Holmes. Some of my ideas are several years old before I actually get to jot them down. I am trying for a new novel, or perhaps a series…"

"Any unfortunate wife in it?" I asked somewhat captiously.

"Oh dear, you make me quite shamed of myself." He smiled gently. "I am, of course, terribly obvious. And of course, the husband is rich, cold and inapproachable. But there'll be other story lines to the novel."

"Indeed? What will they be about?"

"One will involve a poor, but loving couple. I am not sure whether to use them or to save them for the next part of the series."

"Who are they, then?"

He slightly cleared his throat. "He is a packer in some kind of business, and she a lady of peculiar beauty, but only recently recovered from a severe illness. She needs to get into work again, for they are living on their last penny. Then he starts to steal from his company. He gets into trouble."

I slid to and fro on my seat. "What happens to them?"

"She seeks out her husband's employer and explains he did it for her sake. The employer is an understanding, liberal man, but he cannot possibly keep a packer who steals. Instead, he suggests to the lady to work as an artist's model for a painter of his acquaintance. She hesitates. She knows she will have to do it without the knowledge and against the will of her husband."

I raised my eyebrows and leaned back. "That part seems a little constructed to me."

"Hold on, I am not quite finished. Our heroine makes the decision to accept the employment. The good pay is too much of a temptation. She sits for many hours a day for a nude, under the pretense of working in some shop as a seamstress. But of course, the truth has to come out in the end."

"So, how does 'er 'usband react?" I asked skeptically.

"He is furious and beside himself with jealousy. He accuses all the world of having taken advantage of his wife – the painter, the employer, everyone. And most of all, he blames her…accuses her of prostitution…the very woman for whom he became a thief."

We both were silent for a minute. "Will they reconcile in the end?"

Mr. G- sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, where the skin had been pinched by a pair of glasses, as I could infer from the two identical red spots left and right of it. "I hardly know, Mrs. Holmes. I shall have to contemplate that question soon." He looked up at me, his mouth twitching. "You should write yourself, you know? I really think you should."

I chewed my lip, uncertain of what would be an appropriate answer, but I was excused from giving one. In the looking glass behind him, I could see my tea being served, and Lorenzo looking my direction and waving at me.

"I must say good-bye now", I explained to him. "It was my pleasure, Mr. G-."

"My pleasure also, Mrs. Holmes. My pleasure always."

oooOOOooo

He was lying on his couch when I returned home, reading a book by the light of a single wax candle. The blinds were drawn, and if my suppositions were correct, they had been drawn for quite a while, excluding the warm, balmy May evening. Around the couch, more books were arranged in stacks, and what little steps he had taken that day could be retraced on the floor, so thickly layered the fluffy tobacco ash on the planks. I wrinkled my nose against the polluted atmosphere, but did beware of complaining in any way.

"Good evening t'you."

His sole reply was an annoyed grunt, and he remained in his position, so that I could see nothing of him behind the backrest of the couch.

"I'd like ter ask ye something."

"Hmmm?" it came disinterestedly from behind the backrest.

"Yes, I wanted to ask your permission to sit for a picture. A friend of mine wants me as a model for his new painting."

"And why", he yawned, "should you want my permission for something so trivial?"

"Because…" It was more difficult to talk to someone whose face I could not see than I would have imagined. "Because it's going ter be a half-nude. He is going to paint me in my underwear, you see."

He said nothing for a second, and then slowly sat up and turned around. My heart made the strangest little leap when I saw his serious face.

"Kitty", he observed, his eyes hard and stony, "I want you to know this once and for all. You will never, never be obliged to ask my permission for anything you may like to do. That was never part of our arrangement. I am not your guardian, and therefore in no position to ban you from anything. Pray keep that in mind."

Returning to his book, he added: "You may do whatever pleases you best…"

Probably he was not even aware of the words that now hung in the air between us: _….as long as you are discreet about it…_

I clenched my fists, but he said no more, and I left the room wordlessly, perhaps closing the door a trifle louder than necessary. My rate of heartbeat was quickened when I ascended the steps to my room. Shoving aside Ginger Jack, who wanted to rub against my ankles, I paced up and down the length of the chamber once, twice, thrice. It was inconceivable! Of course I had expected him to agree, but not so…indifferently, not so completely without objection! He had to be made of stone! Here was I – trying – trying to –

I passed my fingers through my hair. His impoliteness nearly drove me to distraction. How I detested him! Exasperatedly, I sat down in front of my desk and tugged at the drawers. The one to the right was clamped, I had forgotten about that. The one to the left still contained the rest of Watson's parchment.

I took it out and dipped my pen into the inkwell. There was no need for me to reflect extensively before I began to write. And what I wrote, after some correction and moderation, became a diary, or rather the report you are now perusing.

oooOOOooo

**HELLO! What about my laboriously earned flood of reviews? Story stats increasing but reviews declining, eh? Wtf? Don't always let the same people do the job, you hear! *wags finger***

**I say, what a stroke of luck Kitty is the never-give-up-type! And she would need to be, with Holmes. The grumpy git. I still cannot make out what kind of man he is! Well, at least Kitty has some sort of outlet now. **

**Love, Mrs.F**


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter twenty-six: Golden Jubilee

21st June 1887

„_I beg you, of that motley crowd cease telling/_

_At sight of which the spirits take to flight…" Goethe's Faust_

"Step aside, Porkey! God dammit, I can't see a thing!" Excitedly I fought my way to the scaffolding, using my elbows quite a bit. "Look at 'em!" I said breathlessly.

"I'd like ter", Porkey grumbled, and we shoved each other to the side alternatingly, each getting a glimpse of the open carriage in turn. Four men rode in it, tall, dark men, their heads shorn in order to accommodate the colourful turbans. On their bodies, they wore sumptuous oriental garbs, and each of them was carrying some kind of insignia, though I could distinguish nothing before they were past.

"Now I di'n't get ter see what the princes 'ad in their 'ands, you git!"

"Eh! Neither did I. Stand still girl, yer treading on me toes." We all but pressed our faces against the bars to look at the first section of the Indian cavalry, at the glossy black horses and the rich scarlet uniforms.

"Whoa! Did ya ever see so many black fellers in one plaice?" I made large eyes when the first division was past, for there was no end to be anticipated, others followed, phased according to the colour of their uniform.

"Ne'er. It's a sight ter see. I'd ne'er 'ave thought it'd be so big." He pushed his screened tweed cap back from the forehead. "I wonder whether Mr. 'olmes is re'lly goin' ter miss this 'ere spectacle?"

I finally stood still, re-directing my gaze at the parade. Of course Porkey had no idea of the amiable interview that had taken place at Baker Street this morning, and I had no intention of letting him know.

oooOOOooo

It was a house full of bad mood I tried to leave on tiptoes around eleven a.m. on the day of the great parade. However –

"**KITTY!**" Holmes screamed, apparently beside himself with fury, when I passed his door.

"Mr. Holmes?" I walked in, much less diffidently than I would have some weeks earlier. He entered from his bedroom, the inevitable riding crop in his hand.

"Do you know what happened?" he foamed, building himself up in front of me in a barely disguised attempt at intimidation.

"Obviously something you have got worked up about quite a bit", I said as calmly as I could, but that only served in making him angrier than ever.

"That infernal beast of yours has spent the night in here! Hair all over the place, and I can hardly breathe because of it!" he savagely hit the palm of his hand with the crop. "Let that happen **one more time, **and I guarantee I'll kick the creature out!"

"Well, as it is, you seem to get all the breath it takes to yell at me, so it can't be too bad", I returned stiffly, though I was more and more afraid of losing my temper.

He looked at me, in surprise at first, but I could soon discern my pointed remark did not go down well with him at all.

"Now don't become smart with me, Kitty", he growled, stepping up to me quite closely. "I warn you – do not push my patience too far…"

"Likewise!" I finally flared up at him. "Don't you dare and try to frighten me, because it's not going ter work! And pray, would you put aside that ridiculous thing when yer talking to me!" I indicated the crop, trembling with rage. "Who d'ye think you're gonna impress wiv that?"

He ignored that. "Just be careful if you wish to keep that brute, do you hear? I'd not be sorry to see it go, but perhaps you would. With all the common traits you share! Your admirable feral instincts…your colour of hair…not to mention the fashion in which you like to show your claws."

"Don't you dare ter lay a single finger on 'im!" I cried. Something in his voice seemed to inspire infinite hatred. I thought of Mycroft. I felt cold.

"Well, if the beast is so much of a soul mate to you, see to it there are no further _faux pas_, and nobody will be the worse", he sniffed.

I inhaled deeply in an effort to calm myself. "Are you quite done insulting me? You know Mr. 'olmes, I do not actually believe it is the cat that bothers you. No wonder you cannot breathe the air in these four walls anymore! You hain't left them these three weeks, have you? "

He arched a quizzical eyebrow. "What if I haven't?"

"It's just….you're old enough ter know that morphine an' what all tha' stuff's called won't do the trick. You've been in an awfully foul mood recently. You're seekin' out barney an' then you are naturally likely ter find it. What about yer cases? You've had one at hand since the seizure o' Count Negretto. One! An' tha's not been concluded fer all tha' I know."

"He would be an unfortunate man who'd have to rely on all that you know, dearest Kitty", he mocked me. "And as touching as your concerns for my moods are, I feel obliged to remind you that they are none of your business. Just keep out of my way as much as you can, and you will have done your duty by me to the fullest." He underlined that statement with a fulminant flourish of his riding crop.

"Really?" I spat. I just meant for the best and there he came and told me to keep out of his way! Was that what he had employed me to do? Certainly not! But he felt safe in telling me this, because he knew that propriety prohibited any refutation on my part. I was so inconceivably angry and hurt, and the feeling conjured up the wish to hurt in turn – anyone, anything.

"Whatcha intend ter do with that crop anyways, if the question is allowed? I bet you've never sat on 'orseback in the whole wretchedness o' yer idle life!" I snatched the absurd thing from his grasp, broke it in two over my knee with a loud _Snap!_, and flung the pieces into the farthest corner of the room. "There! That's been one o' the things _I_ was not sorry to see vanish."

I was close to certain that this had earned me at least a slap in the face, but strangely it was he who looked gobsmacked. "I had it to beat dead bodies with – in the dissecting room. Oh, to verify in how far bruises may be produced after death, of course", he added hurriedly, when I gave an indignant snort.

"Thank you, Mr. 'olmes, I think that's been already more than I wanted to know about the affair. Disgusting! I can imagine such activities do not considerably heighten the spirits. Now, have a look at the sky!" I waved at the window to Baker Street. "The weather is glorious and you 'aven't taken a walk outside in weeks. It's Her Majesty's Golden Jubilee today, too…"

"Thank you, I'd rather not", he returned tersely. "I'm sure you can find another escort among your friends. Such a spectacle no doubt appeals to a certain breed of people…" The slightly depreciative undertone did not escape me.

"I see. You 'ave better things to do", I sighed bitterly, my eyes roaming the room that spoke just too clearly of his permanent inactivity. "Well, in this case you shall just have to bear the aftereffects of Ginger Jack's presence. _I _shall go out into the sun and cheer for the queen…" and with a last, pitying glance, I left him in his self-created atmosphere of miserable lethargy.

oooOOOooo

"Kit?" Only Porkey's words made me realize I had failed to give an answer to his remark. "Oh…yes…I'm quite sure 'e'll stay at 'ome. Such entertainment is not to everyone's taste, I guess…"

"But yer _never_ goin' out together. Something the matter?"

I scratched the ground with my foot. "Kit?" Porkey repeated softly.

I sighed deeply. "Dash it all, Porkey! I cannot get on wiv depressive folks, I jus' cannot. It's not in me nature. An' still, they seem ter be attracted by me as the moths are by the flame. They's Natasha, for once…"

Porkey wrinkled his large red nose. "Ya still carin' fer that madcap?"

"Don't call 'er that." I was getting angry.

"Ay. Sorry." He lowered his eyes. "Di'n't mean no offence."

"Good." I glared at him. "As t'yer question, I ain't. Doctor from Harley Street came ter see 'er. Acquaintance o' Watsons. Told me she was in no state ter live by 'erself anymore, an' I can't drive up there ever' day ter see 'er. So I brought 'er to a plaice where she's being taken care of."

"You brought her to the asylum, Kit?" His mouth gaped open. The horrors of the asylum regularly coursed the town like those of the bloodiest crimes.

"Naaah, not the asylum Porkey. To a kind o' sanatorium. It's a nice plaice. An' it's not forever, the doctor says. She'll make a full recovery in time, 'e says. Gives me a lot o' hope."

"Yeah…" He nodded deliberately. "But ya knows Kit, ya can't always keep on solvin' other people's problems. It'll wear you out one day…"

"You must talk", I snortled. "Got yer outta trouble not too long a time ago, di'n't I? Or did yer stay wiv yer Marge happ'ly ever after?"

"We broke up, alroigh", Porkey grunted, "but I still ain't sure whether it was right. Nice girlie, Marge was…"

"Ya'll find yerself something better, preferably a twist that's not flaunting 'er attractions in some squalid backyard plaice. Now, look 'ere…!"

I grasped his arm with an enthusiasm that was probably quite painful for him. "There she comes! There she is! God save the Queen!"

The noise that had surrounded us had swelled to a deafening clamour, and I jumped up and down restlessly, trying to scatter blossoms over the scaffolding as Her Majesty's gilded landau approached. It glinted brilliantly in the sunlight as, drawn by six cream-coloured horses, it carried Queen Victoria down the avenue at a moderate pace. I could see her quite distinctly as she drove by, the long madras dress, the crinkled old face, the grey head with no crown on it, just covered by a bonnet against the heat.

"Seen 'er!" I avidly elbowed Porkey, who had cheered himself hoarse at the Queen's passage. "Oh sweet Lord, that _was_ exciting! I'm positively jaded. Le's go an' look fer some shade, I'm so crackered. An' a drink would be quite welcome…"

"Whyn't we drop by on Ernie?" Porkey suggested. "You hain't been there in donkeys."

"Alright!" I agreed brightly. "C'me along."

oooOOOooo

A whole lot of men had assembled at the _Cock&Horse_, spectators that had come thirstily from watching the imperial show. The business was booming, and Ernie was in the very best of spirits. He waved at us from across the counter when we entered.

"C'mon over, sit down! Sit down! Yer making the number o' the usual loafers complete…"

"Did ya not at all see the show for yerself, Ernie?" I wondered, falling on a barstool with a heavy plump and banging my hat and purse on the one next to me.

"Naw, but ne'er mind that. I been told the particulars o'er an' o'er again, so it's as good as if I'd been there. Now what can I do fer ya? Porkey, watcha loike? O' course, a glass o' me strongest absinth as usual." Ernie disappeared behind the bar to fetch some fresh supplies, and we could hear him argue about the whereabouts of the provisions with his wife.

"Argy-bargy, eh?" Porkey brushed my plough from the stool and sat down next to me. "Ah, hell. Me plates hurt so badly an' I stared me goddamn mincies outta me 'ead. Same must go fer ye, girl, or I'll be damned. All tha' jumpin' up an' down…"

"Eh! Kitty!" One of Ernies younger patrons called me. "Been at the parade wiv old Porkey?"

"Taike care who ye're callin' old, Joe Soap me lad!" Porkey gnarled.

The youth dismissed him with a shrug of the shoulder. "What about yer geezer, Kit? 'e don't mind, does 'e? I'd 'ave secon' thoughts if me wife were constantly squired about town by some other feller…"

I lifted my hands in a gesture of excuse, palms upturned. "'e don't wanna come – I don't force 'im. Don't object ter some freedom as a ma'er o' fact."

"But what's 'e up to?" some other young chap of the name of Teddy wanted to know. Teddy had been of some slight assistance to Porkey in the past, in a case that had necessitated Mr. Holmes to keep in touch with the underworld. "Is he hot 'pon a scent? P'raps there is some chink in it for a feller tha's prepared ter lend 'im a 'and."

I looked at him an astonishment. "Ya knows, maybe there is. 'e's after tha' Whitechapel murderer currently – maybe you've 'eard of it."

"'eard about it, my word!" Ernie had re-emerged from his store room with several bottles, a screwdriver and a tumbler. "Ever' bloody newspaper been full o' it."

"Yeah – an' them women's been whores, so the business might go into the underworld department all right. Maybe some o' you guys got special knowledge 'bout tha' particular district o' Whitechapel", I smirked. Embarrassed mumbling ensued. I grinned smugly and raised the glass Ernie had pushed over the counter for me.

"Re'lly Kitty", Porkey remarked when I had downed half my drink, "It's not nice ter make us all squirrely wiv curiosity an' then keep silence 'bout the thing. What 'as Mr. 'olmes found out 'bout the killer, tell us!"

His request caused much nodding and confirming calls. "Aye, tell us Kitty! It's not fair ter keep yer brass all t'yerself."

"Weeell…" I put down my absinth and wiped my lips with the back of my hand. "I s'ppose you've all 'ears 'bout the mutilations, too. Now they were inflicted wiv such aptness that the police think it must 'ave been a professional butcher…"

"Yes, so…?"

"So…they questioned all the local butchers 'bout their whereabouts at the time o' the las' murder an' the recent one. I over'eard Inspector Lestrade say that to Mr. 'olmes meself. It appears they all 'ad wa'erproof alibis either fer this time or the other." I beamed into the round triumphantly, very much satisfied with the mute attention especially of the younger men.

"Some fellers'd say he was a physician", Al Whittaker finally uttered.

"Naaay! Consider the kind o' people that lives there!" I contradicted importantly, grabbing my glass once more. "There's no physicians in Whitechapel. There's thieves an' prostitutes an' street vendours an' shopkeepers an' carpenters, but ne'er learned men."

"P'raps 'e was no local man at all", Porkey suggested, pensively scratching his stubbly chin.

"Aye…that's what Mr. 'olmes said to the Inspector", I conceded unwillingly. "'e said plenty o' gentlemen frequent the plaices o'er there, an' there's no way of knowing whether the killer was 'un of those or 'un of the resident folks. Said they'd probably 'ave ter wait fer…" I gulped slightly, "…fresh data."

There was a profound thoughtful silence in the pub for a minute. Eventually, Ernie clapped his hands together, making some of the men start as if roused from a deep slumber. "Ey, wha' s that? Ye're a nice bunch o' customers terday. 'ere we are thinkin' our 'eads off 'bout an affair not even a cracker loike Kitty's Mr. 'olmes can figure out, why's that? Cheer up, men! 'ave another drink, fer 'eaven's sake!"

His words had an effect indeed. Five minutes later, we were celebrating the Queen's jubilee once more, and nobody thought about the recent dark events in our City any further.

oooOOOooo

The festivities took Porkey and me to other places that night, and it was well after midnight when we parted. I was surprised to find the house brightly illuminated when I alighted at home at a quarter to one in the morning. The place was abuzz with police men, just as in the night of Count Negretto's arrest. Mr. Holmes and Inspector Lestrade were stepping out of doors grave faced when I came up to number 221b, not a little affronted by my late return, I imagine.

"Kitty", Mr. Holmes said, his brow furrowed, when I had exchanged greetings with the Inspector. "I would have thought you had long retired."

"I celebrated the day wiv some friends o' mine", I replied with defiance. Honestly! Had the man not told me to do and do not what I wished just the other day?

"Is that so." Holmes sent Lestrade ahead to his hansom with a casual wave of the hand. "Obviously, this _jour de fête _was so joyous the festivities had to be extended to the next day." He took out his watch in an exaggerated by-the-way manner and briefly glanced at it.

"Well, les' get that straight." I contracted my brows angrily. "D'ye find fault wiv the hour o' my return? Then pray tell me so."

"By no means. You must be the judge of that yourself."

I groaned impatiently. "Message received, thank you Mr. 'olmes. Perhaps you would have the goodness to explain what _you_ are planning to do in the street at this time of night?"

His nostrils flared with annoyance and derision. "I have been summoned to Whitechapel by Inspector Lestrade. Even though it will hardly matter to you, the day you deemed so much deserving of cheers and gaudiness also witnessed the cruel double murder of Catherine Eddowes and Elizabeth Stride . That being the case, I assume I am sufficiently justified in leaving the house at ungodly hours."

I stared at him with laboriously subdued rage. What was that devilish gift of his of always making me feel mean, ignorant and unfeeling? I was none of these things. I had not known about the tragedy, otherwise I wouldn't have made merry of the affair at the _Cock&Horse_. I would certainly not have partied at all. But it was massively unfair to accuse me of it in this fashion. Of a sudden, I remembered Teddy and my other contacts in the less polite London society that might prove useful for Holmes.

"Is there anything I could do to help – or any help I could get?" I asked cautiously.

"Certainly not. Go to bed, you look as though some hours of sleep would not go amiss. I probably will be back in the small hours of the morning." He quickly reached behind us and opened the door for me. In passing, he remarked: "You drink too much…."

I spun around like a cat that has its tail treaded upon at a remark exceedingly provocative from the lips of a drug addict. But the door had already fallen into its lock, and nothing but an unheard curse gave vent to my vexation.

**Hullo!**

**At last I get time to type this. Reviewing was MUCH better the last time, so thank you for that! It is a great motivation, especially when Holmes is acting such a git (and Kitty such a fool!) that it scares me from taking the pen into my hand! **

**Cockney: **

**Twist - girl**

**Argy-bargy – argument**

**Mincies – eyes**

**Joe Soap – idiot**

**Geezer – old man**

**Cracker – shrewd person**


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter twenty-seven: National Gallery

22nd June 1887

"_The fiery blood of Italy/ The Northman's hardihood…" Goethe's Faust_

"**An Experiment on a bird in the Air pump", Joseph Wright 1768, oil on canvas**

"So he didn't show today – at all?" Lorenzo looked at me with keen interest.

"Not at all. 'e must 'ave returned sometime in the morning, for Mrs. 'udson 'eard 'im come in, but when I knocked on 'is door later on, 'e appeared ter be sleepin'."

"Sounds to me as though he failed. When I feel I have ruined my work, I sometimes lay down to sleep with the intention not to get up before the week is past."

I raised my shoulders. "Dunno. I'd find it only natural if 'e be tired after a long night's work."

"Hummm…" He shifted a little on the leathern gallery seat. "Anyway Kitty, how long are we going to sit in front of that picture, eh? Honestly I think it's quite depressing."

"I di'n't ask yer opinion. We just stood _ages _in front o' those Caravaggios, an' 'e is not 'un o' me particular favourites."

"Oh, come on – it is fairly well done technically, I'll give you that. But still, it's so gloomy! It induces no feelings but horror and pity. And the theme – "

I had not taken my glance from the canvas during our exchange. It was true that most of the scenery was obscured by inky darkness, with only the group of people in the centre to be seen, as if illuminated by the light from the fireplace, and the man servant to the right hand side, silently closing the blinds against the starry night outside. The principal fixed point was the travelling scholar who demonstrated the working of an air pump to the family.

He was a middle aged man with a thin face and long hair, his parched cheeks flushed by the warmth of the fire and the mental exultation, his dark eyes eager and alert. A pretty white bird had been captured in the vitreous container of the pump, so as to mark the point where all the oxygen would be conveyed out and a vacuum created. The table on which the whole apparatus had been installed was surrounded by the members of the family. The greatest moment concentrated on the two little girls, who, frightened and sorry, were hiding their faces in their hands, refusing to witness the procedure.

"I think it's fascinating", I breathed.

"Fascinating? It's horrendous! So – devoid of warmth and colour, of human sympathy! It is almost uncanny, the way you are attracted by it….it doesn't seem like you to like cruelty, even in a picture!" He gesticulated at the little maids, at the bird in the pump. "There is no passion in there – only acuity and precision. Don't look at it like that, Kitty. It makes you seem voyeuristic – it makes you seem callous. And there is no single shred of callousness in you, I know that. You are incapable of cruelty…."

His words stirred up painful memories. As if the muscles of my neck had suddenly stiffened, I slowly turned my head to the side and looked straight into his eyes. "I can be cruel."

_Flashback…_

_It seemed I had been hiding behind the laurel bush for hours. My limbs were growing numb and taut, and the damp coldness of the night was beginning to creep into my entrails, making me feel ill, making me feel dead. My clammy fingers cramped around the small parcel under my jacket. It had a reassuring feel to it, and the crackling of the brown wrapping paper was like music to my ears. I did not know what I was waiting for exactly. It had been about thirty minutes that Dr. Watson had been admitted to Baron Gruner's villa, but they must have retired to the Chinese room, for there were no moving shadows behind the partly drawn curtains of the study. _

_I shuddered. In my mind, I re-experienced the hours of my last visit to this house over and over again. Dreadful – dreadful! Oh, what had I not suffered! What had I not hated with white hot rage! But now I was calm, all calm. I had come on business. And the business was vengeance. _

_It had begun to rain. I was gathering my layers more closely around me as I waited. Patiently waited for the wild game to step into the trap I had set up, as I knew inevitably it must. I was very calm. And I felt so cold._

_Finally! I perked up as a slight sound alerted my ears. Steps on the gravel path! The dark figure of a man stealthily moved past my hiding place and up to the backside of the house. I cautiously left my cover and followed unseen, the precious parcel still firmly in my grasp. The man was tall and very sparse of stature, but it was not the Baron. And it was certainly not Watson. Holmes! I knew him by his swift, lithe gait, and he was wearing a white gauze bandage around his head, which corresponded with what I had heard about his being attacked. _

_He had now reached the French windows of the study, and I slunk back into the darkness. Crush! With a few canters, he had forced open the door, but the noise it produced seemed to me sufficient to wake up the entire house. However, not minding the fact that he had probably been heard, Holmes stepped in and disappeared behind the curtains. I thought very quickly. No doubt he had come to fetch the Baron's diary, now that I had told him where it was kept. No doubt also that he would be caught in the act. And then, what? Adalbert was no man to be trifled with, I have said so before. At the very least, Mr. Holmes would face a serious complaint against his person for trespassing and burgling the house. At the very worst…._

_My hands clutched closer at the parcel. Instinctively, my fingers peeled off the brown wrapping paper and strew it over the garden path. The glass of a flask was now lying in my palm, colder than the blade of a knife, and as dangerous as one. Then – _

"_Holmes! You!" _

_The voice of my former lover cut the silence with a loud yell. I gripped the flask and briskly stepped up to the door. It stood ajar, and I could hear every word crystal clear, as if I had been in the room myself. _

"_I will shoot you through the head – rather than the heart", Gruner just told Mr. Holmes with that pleasant, yet venomous voice of his. "Then inform the police I mistook you for a common burglar."_

_I inwardly started, but when Holmes' reply came, it was with such an ease as if he were conversing over tea with Watson. "It is a role I have played before….with some success."_

"_I have no doubt sir – but this is the last time." Gruner spoke so softly I could hardly catch his words. _

_I grappled the neck of the flask so firmly it almost broke to pieces. It had been my plan to find my way into the house and act only when Holmes and Watson had left, but now it seemed my moment had come. Mr. Holmes had got himself beaten up for the sake of saving women such as I from their own foolishness. I could not allow him to die for it also. Moreover, when I peeped into the room and saw Gruner, slowly raising his loaded revolver, rage suddenly surged through my frozen heart. Hatred resurfaced – twelve months of angry hatred, between the pain and the grief and the horror both my interior and my exterior wounds had given me. _

_All ordered thought ceased, and I stormed in past the motionless Holmes, not heeding Watson, who had suddenly appeared at the door to the Chinese room, crying a word of warning at the Baron, and not heeding Holmes, who sharply called out for me to desist. Gruner was too much surprised to pull the trigger of his gun or even take a step backwards. With a sickening sound, the full contents of my flask splashed into his face, and with an inhuman cry of torture, he dropped his weapon to raise his hands to his face. _

_I stood over him, heavily breathing, as he sagged to his knees in agony. "There!" I spat triumphantly. ""That's fer you, blackguard!"_

_God, how I hated him! But I took no time to relish the sight of his torment. Dropping the empty flask, I turned on the heel and fled the house, his spiteful cries still ringing in my ears._

"_It was that hell-cat Kitty Winter! Oh, the she-devil! She shall pay for it! She shall pay! Oh, God in heaven, this pain is more than I can bear!"_

"We should really walk on, if you don't mind", Lorenzo suggested uncomfortably, rising from his seat.

I blinked and slightly shook my head. It had not been clear to me how much my mental absence had permeated my expression, but now it became apparent that it had disconcerted my friend quite a bit, though not nearly as much as myself.

"Yes", I agreed, slowly getting to my feet, which was rather refreshing after having sat in one spot for such a stretch of time. "Though I wonder if we had not better postpone the rest of our exploration. There are still so many rooms left…"

"But there is that exhibition of Toulouse-Lautrec paintings in the Salisbury Wing", Lorenzo protested. "I came expressly to see that. It won't be here for much longer…."

"Alright", I sighed. "If it is a matter of the heart with you."

"You will enjoy it too, I'm sure. Do you know the artist? He is still very young, of course."

"I have seen some portraits, but apart from that, not very much", I replied and entangled arms with him as we passed through the large, soothingly quiet halls, only sparsely populated on this sweltering Monday afternoon.

"Yes, well, he acclaimed fame only recently. Artist's careers are so very unpredictable. Some fellow will bob up and down and then – in the twinkling of an eye – someone will take an interest in him, and he's a celebrity. Oh, how I wished that would happen to me…."

"Well it won't, if you do paintings of yer pals that nobody wants ter buy", I mocked him gently, referring to our current project that was coming along quite nicely.

"Oh, don't you say that. I had Sir George Lewis look at it, and he was fairly taken with it…"

"Sir George who?" I made a grimace of incomprehension.

"What, didn't I tell you?" he winked cheerily. "He is Phoebe's sweetheart, I met him only the other day. Tremendously important chap, that man Lewis. Seat in the house of Lords….member of the Reform club….frequents the best of London society…"

"So that is where 'er brass comes from!" I exclaimed with a certain satisfaction. "I knew there'd be a minted bod behind it!"

"_Difatti!_ And how lucky for me he is an artistic man. A little patronage would not go remiss, for I am virtually stripped of any support lately."

"Hmmmm."

We entered the Salisbury Wing through one of the swinging doors and found ourselves in a circular room dedicated to the display of the French artist of the day. His style was cubic and colourful, but true to nature by impressionist standards. I ogled a little at the impudent outspokenness of one painting or the other.

"Oh my! These are not very decent, are they?"

He chuckled and joined me in the contemplation of the image of a kneeling auburn haired woman, stark naked and apparently busy scrubbing the floor.

"No…I suppose they aren't. Then again, it is not the duty of a painter to be decent, but to be imaginative. At least that's something different from those sombre old things in the British painter's hall, I daresay!"

"It is…" I disentangled our arms and set out to spot the small room, which save for us was completely empty. "Oh dear….this is very…modern, ain't it? I mean, all o' those lovers…kissing…on the bed…."

"It is very passionate", Lorenzo affirmed. "Yes, with Toulouse-Lautrec everything is about passion. Social forms are mere constructs of the mind – the very least disruption could blow them apart, tomorrow if you like. But some things are always with us – and it's to those that we should give the lion's share of our attention. It is the things deeply entrenched in human nature…."

I lost track of his words as I looked at the kissing lovers on the bed, in the bed….the jumble of naked arms and shins, his lips meeting hers and the auburn hair hanging down over the edge of the bed….Was it true that all the women in the pictures had auburn hair? Or was it the same woman over and over again?

I briefly closed my eyes. My mind seemed to swim. Lorenzo's voice came from afar; although he was standing just behind me I could not distinguish a single word. The small room closed in on me. I could hardly breathe. All of those kisses….his dark head hovering over her red shock of hair as their faces approached….There were things in our nature, there were undoubtedly things in our nature we could not easily abandon. And for the most part, it was right that we could not.

Of course I had certain desires like every other person (every? A small voice in my head seemed to ask), and I was not ashamed of them. But – and this was the truth, a truth painfully learned at that – in some cases it was better to use one's head. Keep one's feelings under control.

I gasped for breath when Lorenzo tapped me on the shoulder, and I spun around as though there were an urgent need for me to justify my thoughts – unclean thoughts, forbidden thoughts. But this was ridiculous. If there were a person to reproach me with them, it would certainly not be Lorenzo.

"I am sorry _carina_ – I should not have dragged you up here when you wanted to leave. You do not look well at all, and you've been distracted all day. It is the heat, _senza dubbio._ I shall see you home."

"Yes", I agreed faintly. "Yes, it is undoubtedly the heat."

oooOOOooo

I had an opportunity to recover from whatever it was the pictures had precipitated in me during our ride to Baker Street. Lorenzo still talked about Phoebe's squire, his prospective patron. I was allowed to remain silent and listen, with a nod here and there. When we halted at my door, he said:

"You continue to look somewhat unsound. I will accompany you inside, if you wish."

"Thank you…tha's kind."

He jumped out of the cab, paid the driver and assisted me in disembarking.

"I say, this clime must be a damned nuisance to you. Of course, summer is much sultrier at home in Lombardy, but for you it must be quite an ordeal. If only I could…"

"Lorenzo", I said firmly, "I'm fine, re'lly. Mrs. 'udson will maike a cool drink fer me…without alcohol, to be sure."

"For a change."

He grinned at me a little, recalling the complaint I had made about my husband's demeanour the night before. We were standing in the hall, and I expected our landlady to call for dinner any moment, for the tall grandfather clock showed that it was just a minute to six.

"_Allora_…if you think you shall lack nothing…" He was about to give me a brotherly peck on the cheek when suddenly both of us heard a sound from the first floor.

_Many_ sounds, to be precise – in fact, there did not seem to be an end to it. I would not trust my ears. Mr. Holmes was _singing_! He was singing _Rule Britannia_! Lorenzo and I looked at each other briefly before we burst out with laughter. We laughed so hard we had to support each other so as not to throw ourselves to the floor and roll over the carpet with merriment.

"Shhh!" I snorted helplessly, but Lorenzo whinnied without repression. "_Mi scusi_ Kitty. I am so sorry, I cannot – "

"I know I know I know, but _please_ keep down yer bubbles or ya'll get us…"

"Is there something particularly amusing? Then you must let me participate in the joke." I swiftly glanced at Mr. Holmes, who descended the stairs in the most dignified of manners, and then at Lorenzo, who hastily hid his glimmering white teeth behind his lips.

"Oh – well – I was just wondering how long it will taike Mrs. 'udson ter ring fer dinna. This is my mate Lorenzo Burini, by the way. Lorenzo, this is me 'usband. Mr. Sherlock 'olmes."

"How do you do sir", Lorenzo managed quite earnestly, with only the faintest tug at the corner of his peachy mouth.

"How do you do." Holmes briefly shook hands with him before turning back to me. "As to your concerns about Mrs. Hudson, my dear, she has taken the day off, so it will be rather useless to wait for her to make an appearance."

"Indeed, but uuumm….you seem in such good spirits terday?" I enquired lightly, keeping down a fresh surge of bubbling laughter. Lorenzo giggled a little. I stepped on his foot.

"Quite so, and for a very good reason, too. I told you about the double murder last night, I believe?"

"Well?"

"I was able, with the help of Inspector Lestrade and the Whitechapel division, to hunt down the trace of the murderer generally known as Jack the Ripper. It turned out he was indeed a resident of the district, tenant of some seedy rooms in a house of ill repute. His occupation is that of a medical student, hence his deftness with the knife. An extreme misogynist, but he is safely under lock and key as we speak, and will not come too close to a woman in the near future."

"_Il brigante!_" Lorenzo had ceased laughing during Holmes' report, and an expression of genuine respect shone on his face. "But how on earth did you succeed in trailing this vicious and devious creature?"

"I would be most happy to impart the details to you…if you would allow us to invite you to dinner? I was on the point of proposing Goldini's to my wife."

"It is very good of you sir, but I am not sure at all Kitty will be able to…"

"No worries", I said quickly when Holmes gave me a strange look – half curious, half expectant. "I am sure it was jus' the heat that upset me li'le. If you'd excuse me fer a moment…then I could change into something breezier."

I blushed absurdly and hurried up the stairs to my room. I had a new, very light pastel green chiffon and a paisley shawl to match. In a hurry, I slipped on both, gave a quick brush to my hair and was ready for departure. On my way back downstairs, I could already hear them chat vividly in Italian. I rolled my eyes, not sure that I was happy about this development. Seriously, was there a single thing Mr. Holmes was not adept at?

oooOOOooo

Our dinner at Goldini' was a pleasant one, even though it was a trifle irksome that my ignorance of the Italian language inhibited my participation in the conversation, wherefore I also missed the greater part of Mr. Holmes' brilliant capture of the criminal. Only after a while Lorenzo suggested somewhat ruefully that it might be impolite to exclude me from the interview, and my husband, mildly surprised at my continued presence, repeated for me in English that the trial would take place in a month's time.

"A trial!" I snorted. "It seems quite farcical, really, since the bludger is very unlikely ter get anything less than the capital sentence."

"Oh, not so", Holmes returned slowly. "Our evidence is by no means complete. Nor is it coercible. And our man refuses to confess."

I pricked up my ears. "He hain't made a confession?"

His eyebrows sped up to the hairline. "Do they ever?"

"I dunno…."

Shrugging my shoulder, I returned my attention to the _Zuppa Pavese._There was a moment's pause before Holmes resumed the talk. "So…where did you two come from when we met earlier in the hall, Mr. Burini? I learn you took Kitty out to some exhibition at a gallery, which one?"

"_La Galleria Nazionale_, Mr. Holmes. They had an extra exhibition on Toulouse-Lautrec. I don't know whether you are…."

"Yes, yes, certainly." Holmes sat down his _chianti _glass. "I recall having seen some of his works when on a stay in France earlier this year. A very innovative young man…courageous, though of course….some would call him outrageous. I think he has a very promising career ahead of himself", he observed, and Lorenzo very lively nodded his assent, so that his chin-length dark hair tumbled around the distinctive face.

I lowered my eyes to my hands. It was fortunate that neither of the gentlemen was looking at me, for once more, I was blushing absurdly and unfathomably.

**Cockney: **

**Minted- wealthy**

**Bod – male person**

**Bubbles - laughter**

**Bludger – violent criminal**

**Hi there! **

**So, Mr. Holmes has met Mr. Burini, and Kitty is tormented by disturbing memories and sexual frustration. Probably she'll soon develop hysteria or a poltergeist syndrome or so. But in his dealings with her, Holmes can think only of one thing, and that is himself….**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter twenty-eight: Persuasion

23rd June 1887

"_One service may demand another as its due." Goethe's Faust_

"I say, are ye goin' out?" I stopped in the door and watched Holmes getting ready for an excursion of unknown destiny.

"Yes – yes. I must to the Yard. Question the captive….several _demimonde _witnesses…give an erstwhile testimony…" He slipped on his jacket and briefly checked the looks of his face in the small mirror on the mantle, an insignificant, but familiar mannerism by now. "All those things that incur in the aftermath of a case, you know. I hope it won't detain me too long."

"D'ye still 'ave a moment? I – um – need ya ter sign this as soon as possible."

"Why, what is it?" He snatched the document from my hand and scanned it with drawn brows.

"It is about my friend, Natasha Orlansky", I explained apprehensively, nervously kneading my hands. "I told yer 'bout 'er the other day, an' ya agreed ter pay fer the quarter."

"Oh yes…I remember. Well then, they charge – " he interrupted himself, disbelief evident on his features. "A hundred and fifty pounds?"

"I knows it'll cover only three months…but it includes ever'thing, board an' medical supervision, an' it's a first-rate establishment", I declared demurely. "It's very necessary that Natasha should get the best treatment she can get, Watson's colleague said so. 'e also assured me that she'll probably maike a quick recovery, once 'er problem's been seized by the root."

I still felt his more than skeptical look fixed on me and I faltered. "Please, Mr. 'olmes…I promise I shall not pester ya at all in return, at least not those three months. I shan't ask fer anything…no new dresses and such. I shall do ever'thing you may care to demand, and I shall fulfill me dooties to the best o' me ability."

His regard by now had become so piercing that I had to cast my eyes down.

"Hum….we'll see about that. Meanwhile, I am prepared to sign over the sum to this medical institution."

"Oh, thank you, thank you so much…"

He waved me away. "Suffice it for you to stick to the agreement. Well, let's see…" He sat down at his desk and dipped his pen into the ink fountain. I exhaled, quite a bit relieved, since the requested sum had been somewhat above what I had anticipated. Sitting down by the table, I watched his back as he stooped over the papers, waiting for the transaction to be executed. "Oh, by the way, Kitty..." His writing hand never stopped as he spoke. "That man you brought yesterday…"

"Lorenzo?"

"Interesting chap. I quite enjoyed my interview with him."

"It is kind o' you ter say that."

"Here you are…" He rose and handed the cheque to me. "I must say I found him rather stimulating. A very learned, well-spoken young man. Talented, too, if one may judge from that picture in Baron Gruner's study. I did not suspect you kept such friendships, to be quite honest. No offense against Shinwell Johnson and consorts, of course, but I suppose it is fair to say they are not quite on the same _niveau_. "

"He is very accomplished. Thank you." I rewarded the comparative mildness of the insult with a little smile.

"No need to thank me. I must be off, good day to you." And he gave me a quick nod before bustling away in the customary hurry.

oooOOOooo

I had some sewing to do, and therefore stayed at home that day. Some of my shift dresses needed mending; and I saw an urgent need to sew buttons on most of Mr. Holmes' shirts. He seemed to lose them left and right wherever he went, though his shirts generally where in a better state than his trousers. They suffered much from the fact that he spent most of his time crouching on the floor of some crime scene or other.

Thus I installed myself by the fireplace (no fire in it though, the heat was still oppressive) and applied myself to the dire task. My thoughts mainly revolved around Natasha, as they often did since the poor darling had undergone the change from friend to incapacitated charge. I had worked for some time with diligence, when suddenly Mrs. Hudson rapped on the door I had left wide open, in the hope that some cool breeze would blow into the room.

"Excuse me, madam…"

"Yes?" I lifted my head, welcoming the apology for a little break.

"There is a young woman downstairs to see you and Mr. Holmes."

"Indeed?" I creased my brow. "Probably not a client, I do not think Mr. 'olmes mentioned any callers due terday. And why'd she want ter see me? I s'ppose there must be some clanger."

"Oh no madam, the young lady is most persistent. I told her Mr. Holmes had gone out, but she still demands to see you, and insists it is a very important matter."

"Ye-es?" I put down my needlework, a little uncomfortable all of a sudden. "A young lady, you say?"

"Very young, madam. Shall I usher her in, madam? I should hate to leave her waiting; she has a baby with her."

"A baby", I echoed blankly. "Certainly, Mrs. Hudson. Show 'er in."

She went out and I rose, smoothing my skirt and turning my back on the door through which the woman was to enter any moment. I breathed deeply when I heard the cry of an infant in the staircase. A woman to see me and Mr. Holmes. A young woman. Very young woman. With a baby. A very young woman with a baby to see me and Mr. Holmes…

I forced myself to turn around brusquely, and I loudly laughed out my relief. "Fanny!"

The girl stomped in maladroitly, bearing her little brother in some kind of wraparound fixed to her narrow shoulders. Drawing her close and kissing her and the little boy, I was still laughing mindlessly, having had the worst conjectures about the "young woman".

"Dear me, have you carried the li'le nipper all the way across the City? Your mother shouldn't 'ave allowed that. Anyone could 'ave snatched you from off the street…"

"Mudder don't know about it", the agitated Fanny explained with her thick accent, while I undid the awkward gear she had secured the baby with. "She's in hospital wiv 'er 'pendix being ta'en out. Susan bogged off wiv father, an' Mrs. Nextdoor is lookin' after the boys, but she told me she ain't takin' care o' a babe. So I came 'ere as quickly as possible…"

"Wait a minute." I stood in front of her, baby in my arms, a disadvantageous position for having a dispute. "You don't mean you want ter stay the night 'ere, do ye?"

"Actually…" Fanny looked down at her toes, sensing my resentment. "The nurse at the CCH said they'd keep mudder there fer a week…"

"A week?" I gushed. "That's impossible! I'm really very sorry Fanny, but I am in no way able ter accomodate ya, and furthermore I am not equipped to care fer the needs o' a baby…."

"Don't worry." She waved the little backpack at me she had brought along. "I've got some napkins in 'ere. We're gonna need them, ya knows, if I'm not much mista'en 'e jus' pooped 'is pants when we came up the stairs."

Completely overcharged with the situation, I held the little fellow one arm's length away from me. Fact was, I could not send Fanny away without cleaning up the mess. Fact was, I was still more unlikely to do so afterwards.

oooOOOooo

My concerns were not without foundation. I changed the baby boy's napkins with Fanny's assistance, and then installed him upstairs in my bed, for he had fallen asleep. Fanny meanwhile did some sight-seeing in the house and found some gratifying objects in Ginger Jack and my husband's chemistry set. It took all my powers of persuasion to convince her not to enter Mr. Holmes' room. For a small conciliation, I had Mrs. Hudson bring us tea, bread and butter, and engaged the girl in a game of memory.

It was by no means an ordinary game. The pairs always were two details from some famous picture. Lorenzo had given it to me on my birthday. However, Fanny kept on losing, having hardly ever seen a noteworthy painting in her life, but it did not abate her enthusiasm, and we played match for match until the tea was cold and the bread all dried up. I rose to turn on the lights, for outside, darkness was slowly falling.

"I think I shall go an' look in on baby. Want some supper, honey?"

"No thanks, Aunt Cathy. " She assiduously riffled the cards. "Who's that on the apples, anyways?"

I whirled around. Holmes! It struck me like a bolt of lightning.

"Now, whyn't ye lay out a new deck o' cards, darling? I'll be back in an instant."

"Alright!"

I left her in the drawing-room and hurried out onto the landing. "Mr. 'olmes!" I whispered hastily, when out of the gloom of the staircase he stepped up to me. "'ow are things at the Yard?"

"Oh, so, so my dear. Northing to complain of. That exasperating scoundrel still refuses to confess, though…"

"My sister needs ter 'ave 'er appendix removed", I spluttered incoherently, seeing that he was about to enter the room where I had left young Fanny.

"Indeed? How unfortunate", he returned, trying to get past me.

"Well…yes, but the thing is", I panted, stepping from left to right foot and back again to deter him, "that she needs somebody ter taike care o' some o' her chavys."

"Quite comprehensible. Now, if you would kindly let me pass?"

"Jus' a minute!" I caught him by the wrist, whereupon he finally desisted and even took a step backwards. He hated it when I did that. "It's…well, the doctor said she was in fer a week, wiv all the rehabilitee business…"

He sighed deeply. "Come to the point, Kitty, I am tired and fairly hungry. If it is money you need…."

"Oh no, no, by no means! It's jus'…" I eventually gave way and indicated Fanny sitting at the table, calmly laying out a deck of cards. The ring of yellow light from the lamp shade above her encircled the game, her deft white fingers with which she arranged it, and it made her thick red hair catch golden sparks, so that her little head seemed to be on fire. It was a lovely sight to behold, but Holmes quietly groaned next to me in the dusk.

"Oh no, Kitty, no. Under no circumstances…."

"But she 'as nowhere else ter go!" I protested, "we can't jus' turn 'er out into the street!"

"Pray see sense. We are plainly unable to accommodate her, even for just a week. We do not even have a spare room. I refuse to take upon me the responsibility for an underage girl – "

At this point we were interrupted by a fierce howl above our heads. Holmes slightly paled. "An…infant?"

"They 'ave nowhere else ter go", I repeated weakly, admitting to the presence of a second underage person in the house.

"Gosh! That'll be Nicholas. No worries, Aunt Cathy! I'll look after 'im." Fanny joined us on the landing, but she froze in the door frame, her eyes opening wide. Apparently, Holmes had no remarkably good effect on children.

"Fanny….that is me husband. Mr. Sherlock Holmes. My dearest, this is my little niece Fanny Morris."

"My pleasure, Miss Morris", Holmes observed stiffly, for Fanny still gazed at him with her mouth open.

"Ya knows, darling, it would be really kind if ya could go up the apples an' see Nicholas", I suggested, since the noise had swelled to a deafening quality, and she was off like nothing. The little one must be hungry, it occurred to me. I must ask Mrs. Hudson –

"Kitty, I thought we had an agreement!" Mr. Holmes brutally interrupted my train of thought. He was almost foaming, and kept his voice low only with some considerable effort. "I thought when I agreed to help you, you had in return promised me…"

"I couldn't foresee this, now could I?"

"Then see how you do get rid of them!" he snapped. "By Jove, I detest noise! And I abhor children!"

"Oh, is that so?" I bit back. "Perhaps you should have turned that over in yer mind before ya 'ad the ingenious idea ter marry me!"

I instantly sensed I had hit a nerve, he stood still and looked baffled.

"'e's quite awright!" Fanny chanted above us, stomping down the stairs a little afterwards. "I think I shall get 'im some milk from then kitchen, though." She flashed me a smile, gave Holmes a quite intimidated look and rushed downstairs.

"So", Mr. Holmes gnashed in cold anger, "you have broken your word. You are again concentrating all your powers on being a maximal nuisance to me."

"They are me sister's children", I implored him, "I see I may 'ave been a tad premature in making a promise of…" Then I observed something rather interesting. The very second my words had turned from aggressive to a somewhat more apologetic tone, his features appeared to soften and his gaze seemed to be a trifle less stony and unrelenting.

Giving it a try, I said with a voice of molten sugar: "It was very, very kind o' you ter help me as you did with Natasha…there was no compulsion fer you to do that. You are always most kind and gracious, Mr. 'olmes. But don't you see that these children are in even greater need o' yer help and your…protection…" I trailed off and let my lashes flutter; I was very small and frail and in want of a strong, preferably male arm to lead me safely through this mess.

I could see very well that my brazen flattery pleased him, still he maintained: "I can understand, and I am very sorry Kitty. But what do you think, where could we even have these two sleep tonight?"

I opened large, unknowing eyes up at him. "Please, Mr. Holmes!"

"Well", he grumbled unwillingly, "well…I suppose….for a week…we can manage…somehow…"

"Here's baby's milk! An' yer Missus 'udson says dinna'll be up in a minute", Fanny announced, wedging herself between us on her way up the stairs. "Comin', Nicholas!"

"Thank you, darling!" I called after her, before I followed my defeated husband into his room to clear the table of our cards and tea things. Please. Please, Mr. Holmes. A one syllable word, a great effect. I had to keep it in mind.

oooOOOooo

"Now", Mr. Holmes said when dinner was over and he had pushed away his plate which had as usual not been emptied properly. "We still have a problem to discuss, Kitty. Where are the children going to sleep?"

"I'm mostly worrying 'bout li'le Nicholas", I murmured. "Suppose 'e wakes up tonight and cries…"

Holmes did not look much happier at this prospect, but Fanny, on whom his intimidating effect had worn off very quickly, crooned: "Ya don't 'ave ter concern yerself wiv that, Aunt Cathy. I'll see after that. I'll taike 'im into my bed an' if 'e wakes, I shall walk up an' down wiv him a li'le."

"But we couldn't possibly fit the three o' us in one bed", I ruminated. "One of us could crush the baby during the night, or it could be pushed o'er the edge…"

"How 'bout that, Auntie. Nicholas an' I taike one bed an' you an' Mr. 'olmes the other. Yer married, so nobody'd consider it unseemly", she suggested helpfully.

Holmes and I briefly looked at each other, and I believe we thought about the same thing. "No", I said with determination. "That won't be possible because…well, because…" I stuttered, blushing vividly.

"Because I am going to sleep on the sofa", Holmes concluded my sentence. "And you will take my bed. Could we just regard that as settled?", he warded off my feeble protests.

oooOOOooo

It was late, but I could not quite find some sleep. For once I was worried about the baby, and whether Fanny would actually be able to manage it if it woke. I constantly turned on my back to stare at the ceiling and to hearken, and then back on my belly, in which position my face got buried in the pillow. For another, there was the unfamiliar bed. It felt different, the mattress seemed harder and the duvet heavier than my own. There was a slight creak of the lath floor every time I turned. And everything smelt of him. The pillow smelt of his pomade, and the sheets of tobacco. Even if it had not been for the ashtray on his bedside table, I would have known he was wont to smoke in bed, at the very least he did that everywhere else, so why not here.

I listened into the nightly house. It was all quiet above my head. Only once did I perceive the low tap-tap-tap of Fanny's naked feet. She went to the bathroom and tap-tap-tap returned with a slight thud of the door. Beyond my own door, I could hear Holmes breathing regularly. Sometimes he snored, sometimes he did not. I had no idea whether it depended on his being awake or not. I would have found out if he had lain next to me, I thought, closing my eyes and with a last creak turned around to sleep at last.

**Hullo, guys!**

**Haha, I had such fun writing this chapter! Holmes can be so impossibly aggravating and yet he can be such a decent chap. Do you wonder what thoughts and emotions the presence of the children will trigger in him? Yeah, me too…**

**Love, Mrs.F**

**Cockney:**

**Dooties – duties**

**Clanger – mistake**

**Bog off – go away**


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter twenty-nine: London Zoo

24th June 1887

"_Thus in our narrow house of boards preside/ and on through all creation's circle stride." Goethe's Faust_

"More memory! More memory!" Fanny crowed imperatively. I weakly blinked at her, signaling my temporary exhaustion. I was honestly bushed, and with bathing little Nicholas first thing in the morning, putting him in a napkin, feeding him, making Fanny's braid and too little time to get some breakfast for myself in between, I felt I had a right to be. Not to mention I had to humour Holmes, who after his less than comfortably spent night was moodier and sulkier than ever.

"No honey. I'm sorry, but I'm fagged out an' need a cuppa coffee first. Di'n't sleep too well las' night. Could ya jus' taike baby fer a minute?"

She did my bidding, which was just as well, for Holmes had already ducked behind the "Star". Fanny watched me drink my liquid fortifier patiently enough, but there was definitely too much energy bubbling up in her small body; constantly taking care of her junior did not seem to be a burden she was unfamiliar with – in fact, it left enough spare room in her active for boredom to unfold.

"Please Aunt Cathy, what are we goin' ter do afterwards? A game? A jigsaw puzzle? Or will ya read us something from a book?"

"Um…" Left to myself, I would have preferred to have a nice extended breakfast in peace, but apparently it was not to be granted me. "Actually, darling…"

"Or we could build a castle from the cups an' plates", she rambled on, "and burn the bread crumbs in 'un o' them jolly pipes!"

'Listen", I said quickly, for the newspaper was already rustling ominously, "'ow 'bout takin' a nice long walk? The weather is fine an' it's not too bleedin' hot outside. We could go to the zoo…."

"Oh yes, please! To the zoo! To the zoo!" My suggestion was met with voluble approval. "Will Mr. 'olmes come, too?"

"Honey I really Don't think…" I interrupted myself and unsuccessfully addressed the object of our exchange, who was acting deaf.

"Mr. 'olmes!" I bent down his newspaper and was confronted with a couple of hard, determined eyes.

"You can have only one aim in interrupting me Kitty, and you must already be aware that the answer will be no. Or do I strike you as a remarkably eager frequenter of the zoological gardens?"

"Yeah I _am _aware o' that, an' I would of course not 'ave bothered ya…" - he raised a an unbelieving eyebrow – " but ya sees, there's the baby ter consider. 'e ain't as lightweight as 'e looks, an' I couldn't possibly carry 'im all the time…"

He flinched, appaled by the implication of my words. "Oh poppycock, Kitty! You are a tower of strength. I have full confidence in your ability to…"

"Not all the way", I insisted, "If my arms go lame, what am I to do? Dump the bay to the ground?"

"Well…." He furtively hinted at Fanny, who was luffing her younger brother up and down on her knee. The baby chortled gleefully.

"Are you by any chance suggesting", I bent closer to my husband and murmured _sotto voce_, "that this unfortunate, neglected child shall again 'ave to load a 20 pound burden on 'er wasted, thirteen-year-old body? While there are considerably stronger and more mature options available, I might add?"

He returned my hostile stare. Evidently, an appeal to his humaneness would be a mere waste of time. "I very much regret that you should think of me in such a function primarily. As it is, I am plainly unable to accompany you and the children. I decided to devote this day to the revision of my monograph on typewriters, and…"

Very well. I inwardly threw overboard all honourable intentions not to resort to this again. Anyhow, I hoped the trick had not already outlived itself.

"_Pleeeaaase_, Mr. Holmes!" I sighed mellifluously.

oooOOOooo

"Them funny creatures!" Fanny skipped over a heap of camel dung and tugged at my skirt. "But Auntie! Why the dickens should they carry those things on their backs, eh? Is it so that the rider won't fall off?"

I briefly laid two arms around Nicholas and endeavoured to bring him into a more comfortably position on my hip. "As far as I know, Fanny, they are keepin' extra water ressources in there. Remember, they are living in the desert. But you'd better ask Mr. 'olmes, 'e knows 'is onions all right."

I swiftly considered the sagacity of my advice when Fanny tugged on my husband's sleeve. He was so averse to any kind of touch, but I could see with relief that he put a good face on the matter.

"Mr. 'olmes! That true what Auntie said? Do the camels keep wa'er in their humps?"

"It is a widespread popular superstition", he remarked superciliously, "and therefore exactly the explanation I should expect your Aunt to give. In fact – " he nodded at one of the animals that was trotting along the grills " – the humps serve as a reservoir for body fat. The desert, you see, is not only slack of water, but also of nutritious plants."

"Thank you." I rolled my eyes. It should have surprised me if one single time, Mr. Holmes had not had the correct answer to a question. Fanny was impressed, though.

"How d'ye know?"

"From my travels in Tibet. The camel there is a most indispensable means of transportation…"

I made a somewhat sour face and headed for the exit. The air in the camel house was stale and stuffy, and I believe both baby and I were glad to be out in the open again. The air here was beautifully sweet and mild, with white feathery clouds floating over the azure sky. Strange sounds and shrieks from the various enclosures made one's head turn here and there, and the delighted chatter of the human young mingled with them as they ran around, pointing out the most curious specimen to each other and laying their little hands around the pales of the fencing, despite the warning calls of their mothers.

Along the path, nicely dressed ladies were ambling, not too elegant though, for fear their finery might be spoiled. The gentlemen by their sides, young and old alike, did their best to feign enthusiasm or interest at the least, fixing monocles under bushy eyebrows or haphazardly indicating strange beasts with their canes from a safe distance. I waited, standing a little offside, for Fanny and Mr. Holmes to emerge from the camel house. They finally did, still embroiled in a discussion of the Himalayan fauna. I waved at them with my free hand.

"Where shall we go next?"

"The Aquarium!" Fanny pleaded, and we set in motion again.

The place was fairly crowded today, I observed, at times it was not easy to keep ahead with the girl at a dignified pace. The mass of visitors appeared to be composed mostly of upper middle class representatives, and one or two of the passers-by seemed vaguely familiar to me. Perhaps it was just an impression of mine, but at times Holmes was dragging behind as if he did not belong to us in any way, at other times he obviously tried to hide behind me, which was simply ridiculous, as I was well two heads shorter than he. We arrived at the aquarium without any mishap, though.

"'ave a butcher's!" Fanny pressed her tiny nose against the cold glass pane, fascinated by a little black and yellow striped fish.

"Don't press too hard!" I warned her. "Heaven knows 'ow much force tha' pane needs ter crack up an' flood us with its uncanny contents."

Holmes chuckled deeply. "Not to worry, Kitty. I am sure they constructed it to stand the weight of Fanny easily, or how do you imagine it should restrain those water masses? Their specific weight is not as low as you may expect."

"If only you weren't such a clever, clever man, Mr. 'olmes!" I bantered, albeit in a kindly tone. He must not think me ungrateful.

He chuckled even deeper. The sound seemed to come from the very back of his throat. "Do you feel intellectually exposed, my dear? I would sure feel sorry for you."

"Not in the least", I sniffed. "Now 'ow come you know about the construction of glass panes that are supposed ter keep back the pressure o' water masses? Did ya learn about that on a submarine voyage, 20.000 leagues under the sea?"

"Kitty, you ate scintillating today!" He briefly pressed his eyes shut with exaggerated deference. "Truth be told, I only read up on the subject in connection with the world exhibition about to take place in Paris next summer. They are planning to build a larger version of this, to accommodate more exotic exponents, such as sharks and dolphins. There was an article in today's _Star_."

"_One, two, three, four, five, once I caught a fish alive!_" Fanny chanted.

"_Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, then I let it go again!_"

"Shall we walk on, darling?" I said, gently touching her shoulder.

"_Why did you let it go?_

_Because it bit my finger so!_"

She exclaimed joyously, snapping for my unoccupied hand.

"Fanny!" I receded and gathered Nicholas closer to my bosom. He whimpered his protest pretty loudly. I did my best to hush him, but already heads were turning.

"Stay here, then" Holmes decided, "your Aunt and I shall walk on. But get no ideas of running away!"

I patted the baby boy on his back as I passed by the aquarium, and after hiccoughing a few times he fell silent.

"Shall I take him for a while?" Holmes had closed up to me, holding out his walking stick as if he intended to buy baby with it.

"Thank you", I said with a relieved smile, and we awkwardly traded the kid for the cane.

Trying to swirl the walking stick as he sometimes did, I clandestinely watched him from the side. He did not look as remarkably out of place as I should have expected him to do, with his leather-gloved hands reaching around the small body and supporting it against his shirt front. In fact, he looked much like the father type abundantly present on the scene: Benevolent, but slightly preoccupied patriarchs, Sunday-fathers temporarily enjoying the company of their children before again they left them in the safe keeping of their mothers.

"This is the alleyway to the reptile house", he observed when we approached a broad double-winged door. "Shall we proceed?"

"Umm – yeah", I agreed half-heartedly. We had hardly reached it, however, when Fanny overtook us at the top of her speed, clashing through the swing door like a missile fired off with major force.

"Fanny!" I called her when we made our way in. "C'me here at once!" She was well ahead of us, but I finally caught her by the arm with the bend of Mr. Holmes' cane. "Not so, young lady! We did you a favour by takin' ya to the zoo, but that don't mean ya can run around like Billy-Oh an' risk bumping into people, d'ye hear!" I lectured her. "Besides which, we told you to abide our return by the aquarium!"

"I'm sorry, Aunt Cathy." Fanny leered at the tips of her shoes.

"You really are most recalcitrant terday! Gimme the slip one more time, and we'll go home immediately!"

"Yes, Aunt Cathy." The little maid appeared to become smaller every second that my stern gaze rested on her. The next moment, however –

"Oh boy! Look!" She virtually flew at the glass wall of a terrarium. Holmes and I followed at a somewhat more sedate pace to see what it was that had attracted her attention.

"_As I was walking down the lake_

_I met a little rattlesnake._

_I gave it so much jelly cake_

_It made his little belly ache._

_One, two, three, out goes she!"_

I recoiled and very closely avoided treading Mr. Holmes on the foot. A repulsive, venomous green serpent was winding along a branch so close to the glass pane that its overfed body was flattened against it in places.

"Ah yes", I heard Holmes calmly remark. "The infamous Green Mamba. Watson could tell you tales…"

"Uuugh." I shuddered, observing little Fanny move her hands along the shape of the arboreal snake with only the thin glass in between.

"So, you dislike snakes?" Holmes' thin mouth twisted into a malicious smile. "I wasn't aware. What a useful piece of information!"

"I am so very scared o' them", I admitted. "Hateful creatures."

"You think so? I find them rather intriguing."

"Well yes, I suppose it's the way they move. Yuck! And then those fangs and the frightful sounds they produce…and those cruel, cruel eyes…"

"No need for concern, it won't escape. But this little fellow does not seem to take to them very well, either", he said uncomfortably, for the baby had started whining again.

"Awright, les' go outside", I determined, gladly grasping for the lifeline little Nicholas had unwittingly procured. "Fanny! Come along!" For the little girl was still mutely staring into the eyes of one of the most poisonous animals in the world.

oooOOOooo

out of doors, Fanny pestered us for ice-cream until we gave in and occupied one of the small round tables in the shadow of several ancient trees, very welcome, for the sun had risen to its highest point. I fed Nicholas his baby bottle, thankfully prepared by Mrs. Hudson, and Holmes told Fanny about his adventure with the Spotted Band or something of the sort, while she happily munched on strawberry-flavoured ices from a dainty crystal-glass. Afterwards, she expressed the request to see the ape enclosure, but Holmes turned her down.

"Another time, perhaps. Now it is really tome for me to return home and get some work done."

However, I myself felt had a mind to see the apes, and Fanny had also grasped the concept by now.

"_Please, _Mr. 'olmes!"

Perfect unison. This worked brilliantly!

oooOOOooo

on our way to the incarcerated primates, we passed a man and his young lady. He instantly caught my eye, being uncommonly handsome with his dark, wavy hair, strong face and steely blue eyes. The girl was also very pretty, of the fair, healthy-looking Scandinavian type. Neither did seem familiar to me, but the man gave the impression that he knew us, or at least thought he did. We re-encountered the couple in front of the chimpanzee cages, and this time they came over to address us.

"Mr. Holmes! I thought I had seen you here earlier on. It must have been years! But surely you do remember…?"

"Dr. Trevelyan", Holmes acknowledged the acquaintance, jerking his head irritably.

"Indeed! I will never forget the utter darkness in which I found myself before you came to throw light on the affair, Mr. Holmes. And Dr. Watson, of course! I trust he is well?"

"Quite well, thank you", Holmes replied tersely. Obviously this encounter embarrassed him somehow.

"This is my fiancée", Dr. Trevelyan casually introduced the lady in his company. "And this is - ?" He gave me a quizzical smile.

"My wife, Dr. Trevelyan", Holmes conceded, with the air of a man who wants to swallow his tongue.

"I am delighted! What a surprise to find you a married man. One would hardly have thought it possible all these years ago, if I may say so. And your lovely children – "

This had not been the apropos thing to say. Within an instant, Holmes' already lugubrious air clouded, and he made a sound, half indignation, half contempt, that was strangely discordant with the carefully kept child on his arm.

"If _I _may say so, I am surprised that you, a man of science, should ignore the more basic findings of genetic research. Since the gene responsible for red hair is recessive, but the dark hair gene dominant, it would be a strange thing for my children to be red-headed, if indeed they were my children. I recommend you undertake an improvement of your general knowledge, or else of your candour. Good day to you!"

He all but shoved the baby into my arms and _stande pede _abandoned us, prowling away with his brows drawn together and his arms crossed behind him.

"I am awfully sorry – don't know what possessed him – 'e is a trifle moody terday", I shamefacedly explained to the flabbergasted young couple. "If you'd excuse us – it was nice ter meet ya."

I called for Fanny, gave her the walking stick to carry, and hastily left to catch up with its owner.

oooOOOooo

It was only at the exit that we gained on him. I was not so much angry as rather sad and confused. Was our red-hair-thing really so disgraceful that he could not avow himself to us? I asked Fanny to take her brother for a minute, and extended my arm to tap Holmes, who was walking at a very inconsiderate speed, on the shoulder.

"Mr. 'olmes…"

"What?" He revolved, and I flinched from the expression of his face, which was one single crease of anger and resentment. He looked exactly as in the night I used to refer to as _The Incident_ in my mind.

"I told you one thousand times not to touch me, when will you learn it? You and your damned lovingness – you sicken me!"

I looked at him, stunned. The whole day he had been so amiable with us, almost as though we were a family – a real family.

"What 'ave I done?" I mumbled helplessly, "What 'ave I done wrong now?"

oooOOOooo

Not a word was said on our drive homewards. The children sniffled silently. The day had been spoiled for them, too. I felt strangely self-conscious and did not dare to lift my eyes to Holmes – as if it had been I who had said those horrible things. I was used to receive abuse rather than anything else from men, but not to receive it from Mr. Holmes and in a public spot. I was not surprised when he made the cab stop halfway back, supposing that he wanted to send us home alone. Instead, he told the cabman to wait.

"Come with me", he said to Fanny, and the child, having regained a fair portion of her respect, followed suit.

"Where are ye goin'?" I called after them, but there was no answer and I could not run after them because of little Nicholas. So I sat and waited.

The quarter of an hour passed, and I was getting quite uneasy in my mind when finally I saw Holmes walking up the sidewalk. Little Fanny came after him, her tears all dried, the smile back on her face. She was pushing the loveliest white perambulator in front of her, with high wheels and a fringe of frills around the edge. Already chatting animatedly again, she helped Holmes to haul the thing into the cab before getting in herself. I waited for Holmes to do the same, but apparently he preferred to walk the rest of the way.

oooOOOooo

I did not see him for what remained of the day. God knows where he was killing his time. He returned in the evening when I was bringing the children to bed; I heard the front door fall closed. After reading a chapter of "The little Lord Fauntleroy" to Fanny, I kissed her and the little boy good night and repaired to the downstairs bedroom.

Hardly had I changed into my nightdress when a knock on the door foreboded Holmes' visit. He entered, clad in his nightshirt and dressing gown as usual, a somewhat rueful expression on his wry face. I looked at him blankly, with neither reproach nor affection as he stood there in the twilight of my candle, gently closing the door behind him. There was no need for his directions. I snuffed the light and laid down, allowing neither thought nor feeling to permeate my consciousness.

He did his part once again, painstakingly, mechanically, without the trace of a sign that this might be anything more than the execution of an unpleasant duty. Then that was over, he tensed, he started, his fingers dug into my pillow. Mission procreation concluded, whether successfully or not remained to be seen. I lay patiently and waited for him to be gone.

He removed himself from my body, got up and pulled over his dressing gown. When this time he uttered his word of apology, I received the impression he did not just refer to what he had made me do just now and all along, but to something – more.

**Hum, he really is the most inscrutable fellow that never lived, haha. Hopefully Kitty will learn to read him in time? And why can't he act like an ordinary man for just one day? *shakes head clueless* Hope you liked the kids, the camels and the Green Mamba!**

**Lots of Love, Mrs.F**

**Cockney:**

**Like Billy-Oh – real fast**

**To know one's onions – to be well informed**


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter thirty: Misgivings

30th June 1887

"_Intelligence and good sense will explain/ _

_Themselves with little art and strain." Goethe's Faust_

We saw little of Holmes in the days to follow. He kept much to himself, and the possession of a perambulator suspended the necessity for him to accompany us when we went out. On the whole, he tried to avoid us, but when in our company, he was kind to me and had a lot of patience with the children. I suppose he wanted to make up for his behaviour on the day at the zoo, but he did so half-heartedly. Most of his time he did spent out and away, though I was almost convinced it was not in order to work, as he purported.

I had adapted to life with a baby very quickly, and Nicholas was really a sweet, calm child that did not cry too much, which made everything very much easier for me. I learned to conform to his life rhythm, knew the times when he got hungry, and the times when he got tired. At night, he slept no longer with Fanny but with me, and I found out how to soothe him by rocking and quiet talk when he woke. His milk and mashes thankfully were prepared by Mrs. Hudson, who had positively fallen in love with the little boy. She spent far more time in our rooms than necessary, pretending to be cleaning, but really fretting around and making a great fuss over Nicholas.

Fanny enjoyed it all very much. She had made the attic her personal sphere, and from some chairs and an old rug built a kind of Bedouin tent in which she bivouacked. She even slept in there, on a flea-bitten old mattress, which held the advantage that I could move back into my room, and Mr. Holmes regained possession of his. During day-time, Fanny did a great deal of reading, though she never looked twice at the lovely children's books I had provided for her. From the cobwebby chests and boxes, she retrieved Holmes' old discarded books and devoured them at random. I had found her reading the History of Herodotus, "Indigenous Peoples of the South Seas" and a treatise of Bertillon's measurements. Also, I once was just in time to make "Psychopathia Sexualis" disappear from the odd collection before she had a chance to get at it.

But on the whole, it was safe to let Fanny have her own way, and she had a great time of it. She liked to take candles and biscuits into her tumbledown tent, so as to anticipate visitors. Her favoured guest, apart from Ginger Jack and Mrs. Hudson, was the old waxen simulacrum of Holmes which she had cosily installed in the corner of her strange housing, and for an unfathomable reason had baptized to the name of Grimesby. More than once, when I came up to bring her tea or some food, I found her offering Grimesby some ginger biscuits, while

Ginger Jack sipped on the milk jug by her feet. The thick-layered dust did not appear to affect her at all, nor did she seem to be scared when in the evening, the shadows began to lengthen in the nooks of the attic. She was quite content with this filthy excuse for a nursery, and I believe she could not have been more so had she been gifted with the most expansive of kingdoms.

oooOOOooo

"So, what is _your _opinion of that man Garrideb?"

Two gentlemen were sitting in the Bow window of the Anglo-Indian Club, a tall lean one and a somewhat shorter and stouter man with a blonde moustache. They were sipping Marsala after dinner and enjoying the last sunbeams of what had been a glorious summer's day. The dark man sniggered a little.

"Oh my dear Watson, it is all but too obvious. You ought to be able, with your considerable amount of experience, to discern certain parallels between cases. Now, at the face of it, it looks as though Garrideb wanted to coax his elderly namesake out of the house, don't you think? Does that sound familiar? Does it ring a bell?"

His companion pensively tugged on his moustache. "The crime, if indeed a crime is envisaged, seems to bear marks of our strange experience with the so-called Red Headed League. In both cases, some farce was set in scene so that the criminal might have a free hand in the house. But surely you won't suggest Mr. Garrideb is tunneling, will you?"

"Really. I should have thought of the Naval Treaty case rather." Holmes shifted on his seat and assumed a more matter-of-fact expression. "But no, of course he is not tunneling. There would be nothing in the immediate neighbourhood to remunerate such pains. And yet…there must be some sinister aim, for there can be no doubt that Mr. John Garrideb plays the crooked cross. You received that impression, too…"

"Indeed I did, and with your deductions, it ceased to be an impression and became a certainty." The doctor nodded vigorously. "And what's more, I even worked my reception of this dubitable character into the beginning of a very promising tale. I hope I will be able to complete it soon, when your case has been concluded. Perhaps you might like to have a look?"

He extracted several loose sheets from the pocket of his jacket and wanted to hand them over to his friend, who merely grimaced. "Dear Watson. I am afraid that once more, you are contemplating the problem from an entirely wrong angle. Instead of embellishing the facts, which are confusing enough as it is, you ought to confine yourself to the vents as they came to pass, and the inferences that could be drawn from them. "

A little disappointed, Watson sank back on his seat, stuffing the sheets into his jacket again. "It seems to me that, since I do you justice in acknowledging your authority in all matters logical, you should perhaps do me the justice of acknowledging my authority in the field of prose writing", he replied, a wee bit offended. "I could never produce entertaining tales by recounting the mere facts. Even you must admit that, if one wishes to be read, one needs to put the events forth in such a fashion as to interest the reader – "

"_Au contraire_, my dear fellow. A truly intriguing investigation in itself will always suffice for a captivating plot, and afford you to dispense with all superfluous ornament. Ah, the great pleasure of following a veritably ingenious train of thought, from link to link of the intricate event chain…"

Watson sighed, albeit almost inaudibly. "Yes, yes, I suppose you are right from your point of view, old chap. If you have finished your glass, would you care for a turn at the billiards table?"

oooOOOooo

"Ouuf! If I'm goin' ter do 'un more stitch wiv these me own 'ands, I'll be damned!" Fanny put down her needlework and jumped to her feet impatiently.

"Language, dear!" I berated her. "I'll be finished presently meself. Jus' need ter secure the end o' the thread. Fetch me the scissors, please?"

Fanny looked around in my bedroom irresolutely. "Why, where d'ye keep it?"

"In the drawer o' my desk, lovey. Ouch!" I had pricked my thumb with the needle and stuffed it into my mouth, sucking on it crossly.

"The drawer's clamped, Auntie!"

"Yeh right, I need ter 'ave that fixed. Look into the other drawer fer me!"

She came leaping back to me like a young dog, bringing a pair of scissors with her.

"Thank ya…" Removing my finger from my mouth, I shortened the thread and stitched the end into the seam of the baby blanket I was making. I would shape a big nice patch into a camel, I thought, and sew it on top…

"That you, Aunt Cathy?"

"Yer Pardon?"

Fanny was standing in front of the mantle, one arm on her back, its hand grasping her other loosely dangling arm, and she earnestly gazed up at the picture above while performing these wrenches. "The woman in the picture? That you?"

I rose and went to stand beside her. "Oh no, dear. It is your grandmother. Mum's and Auntie's mother, ya knows."

"God awmighty, wasn't she a looker!" Fanny stared open-mouthed at the painting.

Indeed her grandmother had been a very striking woman, particularly in her early thirties from whence the sketch dated. One white arm resting on the back of the sofa, she pliably smoothed into its recesses, what with her stiff, severe buckram pinafore had certainly not been an easy thing to achieve. Unlike me, she wore her rich auburn hair up, in a chignon with curls over her ears, as had been the fashion in the early decades of the century. From below her wavy fringe, a pair of austere eyes peered at the onlooker, openly, honestly, watery-grey.

"She looks a lot like ya, Aunt Cathy."

"In fact, I think she looks remarkably like you. I also got 'un or two photographs of 'er. D'ye like ter see 'em?"

The girl nodded mutely.

"C'me 'ere…" I made her sit on the bed, rummaging underneath for the box containing my personal memoranda. " 'ere we are! The photograph album. Tha's yer grandparents' wedding!" I ensconced myself beside her and pointed at the brownish sepia picture, crinkled with age. "Tha's yer Uncle Jonathan. Ya ne'er seen 'im in real life, have you? It was ta'en on 'is first day in school. An' tha's meself being christened! And that is…."

"Madam! Madam, quickly!" Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs, rather flustered to judge from her rate of breathing and the sounds of her steps.

"What is it, Mrs. 'udson?" I called, rising from the bed.

"You've got a visitor, madam…" There was no need for her to proceed, however, I could already hear Annie's voice in the staircase.

"Oh, _do_ let me pass. Why should I 'ave ter wait ter be announced to me own sister? Whatever next?"

"Muv!" Fanny also hopped from the bed when the door opened and Annie stomped in in her habitual graceless manner. " 'ow yer doin'?"

"Don't fret kid, I wouldn't 'ave made it up the apples if I weren't entirely sound. Where's the baby? Go an' fetch 'im."

"But Aunt Cathy jus' wanted ter show me the fambly album an'…."

"Pah!" Annie shoved her in the direction of the door. "I 'ad a hunch ya'd spoil them terribly. The fine lady don't e'en know 'ow ter deal wiv a chile, great airs an' all…"

"It's quite all right. Ya don't 'ave ter say thank you", I returned coldly as Fanny slipped out of the room to fetch Nicholas. Annie gave no reply. Instead she gazed up at the picture of our mother above the fire place.

"Ya still looks a trifle wan", I went on. "Was the operation re'lly inevitable?"

"O' course it was, otherwise I wouldn't be 'ere now. Where's yer hubby, anyways? Oh, never mind. I s'ppose 'e's awready turned ter booze an' other tarts. Them gentlemen ate fastidious creatures, or so I 'ear."

I contemplated her ponderously, coming to the conclusion that she must really draw on hearsay in the ideas she issued. "Some men are", I remarked blandly. "But not mine."

She looked at me for some instants, but I did not blink once. Annie shrugged her shoulders. "Ya'll descend from yer 'igh 'orse in time, ya trust me. Now c'mon child, gimme the babe! An' get yer stuff tergether. We're goin' back 'ome."

"Oh no, muvver!" Fanny was awfully disappointed. "Les' stay at least the night!"

"No way. Is it too much ter ask me children back? Is it not bad enough on me wiv yer renegade father an' yer runaway sister...," Annie raved.

"But we hain't said good-bye to Mr. 'olmes", Fanny protested, and the baby started to cry as if it knew what was going on. Her mother took the girl firmly by the wrist and dragger her down the stairs. I staggered her e and there, hastily collecting Fanny's possessions, which mysteriously had distributed all over the place.

"Hurry up! We'll need ter catch the 'bus, otherwise we won't get 'ome before nightfall."

"Jus' do as fanny suggested, an' stay the night", I urged her, but she refused flatly.

"Nah, that won't do. Fanny, ya'll taike the backpack, an' I'll taike the baby…"

"Wait", I exclaimed, swiftly diving into the adjacent room and producing the perambulator," Taike this. Me 'usband bought it expressly an'…"

"Nah, nah, none o' that. We don't need no swell gear ter get 'ome."

"Now be reasonable", I insisted, and Fanny wailed that she would not walk one step with the backpack if they could as well have the perambulator to bear their luggage.

"Oh well, " Annie finally grumbled, "it's all the same ter me. "If ya thinks ya won't need it in the near future – which I can believe, lookin' at ya as I am."

"Fine, take it then", I said, inwardly adding _ya_ _old battle axe._ "Farewell, children…" I gently took Nicholas from Fanny and laid him into the perambulator, covering him with the blanket. "Ya'll get yer camel blanket as soon as it's finished", I whispered into his tiny ear, kissing him cautiously.

"Aunt Cathy…" Fanny threw her arms around me from behind. "I don't wanna leave…"

"Oh, I shall see ya soon darling. And why shouldn't ya come and visit me as often as ya likes? Mr. 'olmes an' I should be happy."

Her smile was like sunshine after rainfall. "Give 'im our love, Auntie."

"Sure, I will. Bye now."

I passed my hand through her thick curls, and nodded briefly at Annie who was ripping open the door and towing the loaded perambulator outside.

"Bye, Auntie." Fanny's fingers took a long time in parting from mine. I stood in the door frame for quite a while, watching the family walking down the street towards the bus stop, until they were obscured from view by the crowd. Annie's family, not mine. For I had none to speak of.

oooOOOooo

Watson chuckled quietly, issuing blue clouds of cigar smoke as he watched his friend twist and curl his meager figure, almost lying on the billiards table as he placed the cue between his fingertips, a frown of intense concentration on his face.

"Don't you think you'll need the bridge, my dear boy?"

Instead of an answer, Holmes softly but dexterously hit the black ball, making it cut the green one, which rolled across the table and dropped into one of the holes.

"Bravo!" The doctor could not help himself and clapped his hands admiringly, placing his cigar between his lips.

"Thank you Watson", Holmes replied calmly, leaning the cue against the table and reaching into his waistcoat for the cigarette case. The gentlemen had allowed themselves the comfort of removing their jackets. "Your turn."

Watson stumped his cigar into the silver ashtray and returned to the table. Taking the chalker and smoothing the shaft of his cue with it, he enquired, just like a man whose conversation has been interrupted over a game: "And how is dear Kitty faring, old chap? It has been quite a while since we saw her last."

"She's doing fine, thank you", his friend replied with the hint of irritability that always succeeded Watson's innocent enquiries after Mrs. Holmes. "If you would concentrate less on your literary endeavours and more on the state of my right sleeve, you would know we have children in the house."

"You – do?"

"Oh yes. For the time being, Kitty's niece and nephew are staying with us. Their mother has had an operation and is detained in hospital."

"Indeed!" Watson made a strange face, somewhere between anxiousness, curiosity and amusement. "And how do you ….cope?"

"Cope?" Holmes struck a match and held it to his cigarette, shielding it from possible draft with the left hand. "Whatever could you mean by that?"

"I'm not so sure…" Watson seemed a bit embarrassed. He quickly stooped over the table and aimed at the black ball, the only one left.

"If you mean, do I still regard children as an obnoxious abuse of the nerves, I would feel inclined to say yes, I do. But these two are really quite agreeable. The boy – not much more than a year – is very quiet as babies go. If he cries, there usually is a good reason. He's the youngest of his siblings, and Fanny the eldest. She is somewhat livelier than he – but to a tolerable degree, and furthermore quite reasonable and insightful. The girl and Kitty are very much alike."

Holmes seemed so relaxed and composed that Watson thought it save to ask the question that had occupied him for quite a while now. "Are you and Kitty planning….?"

"Oh yes", Holmes said lightly, flicking his ash into a potted _sinduri _plant with a negligent gesture. "In time, I fancy…"

"I'm glad to hear it. As you know, Mary unfortunately can't have children. It's a sad thing for a woman that's so very fond of them. In future, you must come to see us more often, and bring all the little Holmeses with you…" Watson laughed softly and again ducked low to concentrate on the game at hand. Thus, he could not see his companion who was still standing in the same spot by the _sinduri_, the cigarette in his hand slowly smoking itself. His forehead was profoundly creased by the contraction of his brows, and he passed his hand over his mouth as if struck by a sudden and discomforting thought.

**Hi….**

**Oh dear, the poor children. They really enjoyed staying with Kitty and her weird husband. And Kitty liked them to stay. Even Holmes did not object to them too greatly. Still, go they must…**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31: Debt due

17th July 1887

"_Fear not! This league with you I shall not break!" Goethe's Faust_

"And then 'e said: Where are the children? And I said: Annie caime ter taike 'em home", I explained, strenuously arching my back. "An' then 'e said: Pray what are ye talkin' about? An' I said: Well they are gone. What shall I say, they are gone. And then 'e became entirely strange. It's been two weeks an' 'e still gives me the cold shoulder."

"He _is_ quite a peculiar man", Lorenzo murmured absent-mindedly. In the mirror of the washstand, I could see him brush over his canvas a couple of times before he dipped his brush into the oil colours again. "_Un uomo eccezionale_. Relax your shoulders a bit? _Grazie_."

"An' tha's a positive understa'ement. Ya knows, what maikes me crazy is 'is bloomin' unpredictability. One day nice, one day gruffly, one day absolutely intolerable. 'is mood changes quicker'n the weather does. There's jus' _nothing_ I could do ter influence it. God dammit, I feel like a tiny boat in the whimsical sea, at the mercy of a gale that constantly changes direction…"

"Talk to him?" Lorenzo suggested, taking a step back from the canvas and screwing his eyes at it.

"Talk?" I laughed scornfully. "It is impossible to talk to Mr. Supreme Wisdom Holmes. 'e'd put ever'thing down to my imagination, and exaggerated sensitivity, and most likely end up hurling insults at me, for my humble origins, mediocrity, lack of breeding, foolishness and whatever may occur to 'im. I don't want no more scenes like on the day we took the chavys to the zoo, thank you very much."

"I found I could talk to him quite without any difficulties."

"Yeah, but then you ain't married ter 'im, are ye? And always this unnerving correctness of his! He's always right, does the apropos thing, knows all about everything. Ask whate'er question you like, Mr. 'olmes 'as the answer. Broach whatever subject, and be sure Mr. 'olmes 'as made it 'is special province. Speak whate'er language, an' Mr. 'olmes will speak it too. You've met 'im. An' what did 'e do? Speak Italian…"

"Not very well." Lorenzo flashed me a brief smile via the mirror.

"That so?" I creased my brow. "Anyway, it's jus' aggravating. 'e maikes me mad wiv 'is constant – "

"Well, I'm sure you had your reasons for selecting him."

That was telling me. I fell silent and lowered my eyes to the little objects picturesquely distributed on the dressing-table and dominated by a single blue iris in a water glass. Albeit frequently tempted to do so, I had been as good as my word and never talked to anyone about my true motives for the marriage with Holmes. Not to Lorenzo, neither. It was simply too – complicated. Who would even understand…

"Kitty."

"What is it?"

"Don't think about him."

"What?" I abandoned my pose and turned around to face him.

"Don't think about him. It spoils the picture. Makes you uncomfortable."

"D'ye mean ter say what I am thinking is going ter reflect on the painting?" I asked, trying to sound derisive.

"Yes", he replied plainly. "You tense. You frown. I do not want to see you like this, Kitty."

Putting down his brushes, he advanced one step and went on: "It is very crucial that you should feel quite yourself when you sit for me. What I wish to do is capture Kitty, and Kitty is not some worried, ruminative housewife. Kitty is in fact a very spirited, light-hearted being, or so I knew her to be. She never ties herself to anyone in particular. She's simply _loved_, and she loves in return without giving it much thought."

I held my breath when he stepped closer, locking his arms around me and drawing me to his chest in a warm, affectionate embrace. It was as though I wanted to cry, nestling my face against his shoulder and glancing over it at the backside of his picture. Perhaps it was true, perhaps I had changed. If so, Holmes was to blame. His inhuman coldness was killing something inside of me.

He was not normal – could not be normal. Keeping the company of someone like him was unnatural to me. Long solitary evenings passed my mind's eye, empty days, nights spent weeping because I had once more let him have his way with me.

Yes, I was used to being loved or at least desired, but Holmes pertinaciously refused to do either thing, he resented who I really was. Beneath the polish of my civilized surface, there was a heart and a human being, but what was beneath his? Was there anything at all? I did not know. I had no idea who he was deep inside, what he felt and thought. All I knew was: He did not care for me. And I could not deal with this.

Finally drawing a long and shuddering breath, I nuzzled closer to Lorenzo. He was good and warm and soothing, and he smelled of coffee and his colours. It was like finding something I had missed dearly for some time – like coming home, in a way. My arms closed around his waist and we stood motionless for a while. Oh, how I had longed for a simple bit of sympathy. How I loved being loved.

I reveled in the sensation until he carefully retracted his arms and gave me a lop-sided smile. "Better?"

"Yes. I think I am ready to go on." I smiled back at him. "Thank you."

oooOOOooo

Holmes had been scribbling something down, but when he heard me enter, swiftly rose from his desk and turned at me.

"Ah, here you are. Have a seat, I want to discuss something with you."

I observed him extremely askance, but in the end could not but oblige his request, for the wave of his arm indicating the chair by the fireplace and his whole masterful manner were apt to make a braver person than me shrink back. All the same, I disliked his imperious tone.

On his part, he did not sit down, but simply stood in front of the mantle, lightly resting against it, arms crossed in front of his chest. I watched him for a while, getting peeved and anxious to such a degree that I had just thought I was going to flare up at him when he finally opened his mouth.

"You are aware, Kitty, that on this present day, we have been married exactly three months?"

I distinctly felt my jaw drop. I never would have expected something of the kind. It was most unusual for him to think of such a trifle, and still more, to deem it worthy of mention or even celebration.

"I am, of course, Mr. 'olmes", I replied with extreme caution.

"You are equally aware", he proceeded, "that although three months have elapsed, there has not as yet been the slightest sign that our endeavor is finally bearing fruit?"

So, that was what he was driving at. I should have known.

"You must not make yerself uneasy", I said after having sat in silence for some time. "It is not unusual that these things should taike a li'le while. Jus' 'ave a li'le patience an' I'm sure – "

"Oh, nonsense", he interrupted me rashly. "I admit that under normal circumstances, one would without disquiet allow some more time for nature to take its course. I hardly think, however, that the same parameters can be applied to our convention. Nobody could deny we had taken every possible effort…."

"You cannot presume ter play God, Mr. 'olmes", I retorted with some considerable asperity. "These things will taike as long as they will, and you cannot hasten them!"

"Have you been taking precautions?" he enquired unapologetically.

"Mr. Holmes!"

He did not respond to that. "I want you to see a doctor."

"You must be quite insane!" I was beginning to lose my temper. "Of course I shall do nothing of the kind!"

"I said", Sherlock Holmes returned in a drawl, "I _want_ you to see a doctor. It doesn't matter to me whom you chose, though naturally I would have the greatest confidence in Watson. You are not fulfilling your part of the bargain, Kitty. Note that I want to make absolutely sure I haven't married an infertile woman."

"I won't – "

"Oh yes, you will", he growled, stooping and gripping me by the shoulders, "because I told you so."

"Why are you insulting me with such outrageous impudence?" I cried indignantly. "It may not be my fault at all! Perhaps it is you who can't – "

His eyes narrowed to slits. "Careful, woman."

"Fool!" I shook off his hands and jumped to my feet. "The great logician! The incorruptible reason! 'e can't even o'ercome the bias o' his own vanity…"

"Just do it!" he barked. "Just do as I say and see a doctor, and let us finally get over with this! Why should you want to prolong our respective sufferings?"

"Sufferings!" I bit back spitefully. Never in my life had I experienced such humiliating resentment. "There's many a man who wouldn't mind having to make an effort! Many a man who would not in the least object ter me, I daresay!"

"That is as may be, but I am not one of those, and I do indeed mind a great deal! What is it you expect of me? Eh? Do you seriously expect me to enjoy this…this…this loathsome…"

He clapped a trembling hand to his mouth, his face convulsing painfully. For one or two fearful instants, he vacillated, and I really thought he was going to cry, but he fully recovered his composure in a moment. Lowering his hand and breathing deeply, he repeated: "Just see a doctor. You owe it to me."

I did not say another word, and neither did he. Unable to bear his presence for one more minute, I exited his chamber and sought refuge in mine. I was hurt to the core.

oooOOOooo

_Holmes has lost _it, I thought, angrily walking up and down in my room. _He's completely lost it!_

I was so tired of being the instrument of a man who would doubtlessly toss me aside the moment I had given him what he wanted. Which I was certain I could. Three months were nothing in the scope of this particular sort of undertaking. No, what really angered me was the way in which he seemed to expect I would do my duty as quickly as possible, so that he would be out of it all and leave the nasty business of child bearing to me.

He could plan and calculate as much as he liked, I was not a procreation machine! Was it my mistake that he was so twisted? What did I know according to which idiotic criteria he had chosen me! The width of my hip, perhaps? Or maybe he believed in old wives tales about the prolific red-headed female?

It was only later that day that Mrs. Hudson brought up a letter that had been sent me with the morning post. It was from Natasha, and I was so eager to read it that I ripped it open in the presence of our landlady. It ran thus:

_My dearest Kitty,_

_Please excuse my prolonged silence, I have not been well for some time but by now I am quite well which is why I am writing to you. _

_The home is very nice. Every day I walk out into the garden with the other ladies and we have coffee on the lawn. I do not suffer so much from depressions anymore and can finally enjoy being with other people again. My roommate is a very pleasant Norwegian, and she has come all the way from there so you can see how efficient and well-respected the place is! She used to cry in her sleep but recently it has grown better with her just as with me. _

_Dr. Levine also is a very pleasant man and a wonderful therapist. I cannot believe you have found me someone who understands me so completely! We do sessions several times a week and he is always so very patient and sympathetic, he helps me so much. And would you believe: There will be a concert in the neighbourhood on Saturday, and Dr. Levine has asked me to accompany him there! I am so excited about it. Naturally friendships between patients and staff are not encouraged, but we will slink out of the compound under cover of darkness. It's going to be such fun!_

_I have never been so happy. And I am so very, very grateful that you are doing all this for me. Please come and visit me soon. I can't wait to see & hug you!_

_Your devoted friend_

_Natasha Orlansky_

Good heavens. I let the paper sink with a big grin on my face. Natasha was in love with her therapist! Well, what if. It was wonderful news that she had finally moved on from the past and forgotten about our mutual seducer and tormentor, Baron Adalbert Gruner. I had indeed never known her to be so enthusiastic about anything. It seemed that she was really on the mend. To think that I had effected such a miracle! What joy! But…

My eyes had been caught by my cheque book on the desk, largely sporting Mr. Holmes' signature. _Everything_ in life has its price. Where had I heard that recently?

**Payment day, Kitty! Regretting that Holmes is such a nutter will avail you nothing, I fear. And honestly: He **_**did**_** fulfill his obligations to the letter, did he not? So, humour his spleen!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter thirty-two: Medical advice

19th July 1887

"_I know not what compels me to your will." Goethe's Faust_

"…and that's it. Not too terrible, was it?"

"No", I croaked when Dr. Watson eventually withdrew his hands from my most private parts. I was lying on a patient couch in his practice, more or less naked under the blanket that shielded my body from sight. Holmes had no idea what he was putting me through, I thought angrily. I was not going to forgive him this humiliation easily!

"Very well my dear", Watson continued in a most fatherly tone. "I shall leave you for a minute or two. Just ring the bell when you have finished dressing. And then we're bound to have a little chat, alright?"

"Alright."

I waited until the door had closed upon him, and then rose and slipped behind the wall screen where I had left my clothes. Gnashing my teeth, I put them on one after the other. For Goodness' sake! Why was it always me? Holmes would never agree to submit to a medical examination, I thought, pulling the tassel of the bell almost aggressively. Watson returned within short time.

"Sit down, will you?" he invited me, taking a seat himself behind his orderly bureau. "Well Kitty. " He put his hands together in a fashion reminiscent of his boswell, and watched me over the tips. "As far as I can tell, there is no apparent physical obstacle for you to conceive and bear children. You are therefore absolutely free to go on trying."

I nodded, and felt myself colour a little. God dammit, how mortifying this was!

"However", Watson disrupted my musings, "I am not too happy with your general state of health. You look a bit anemic…"

"I was always very pale."

Watson deliberately inclined his head. "That may be so, but for a woman planning to have a child, I find it recommendable to pay as much attention as possible to health concerns. Moreover, you have indicated 110 lbs as your current weight, which is just a bit too little even for a woman of your height, and to be quite frank you _do_ look rather frail of late…."

"I was always - "

"And above all", Watson concluded, "you told me in our initial interview that you do not sleep well at night."

That I could not deny. Thankfully, Watson did not suspect the disturbing nature of the nightmares that haunted me.

"What should I do, then, doctor?"

He reclined in his chair, one hand toying with a lead pencil on his table top. "In fact, I think you ought to go for a stay by the sea – get some fresh air and escape from this noisy city for a while. At any rate, it would do you no harm. You could join Mary in Brighton, the poor soul is feeling quite lost and lonely. We meant to travel down together, you know, but then my neighbour fell ill and now I have to take care of his patients."

"I dunno…." I insecurely shifted on my seat. "My 'usband might not like to treat me to a holiday jus' now…"

"Oh, be sure he will. He still owes you a honeymoon voyage, does he not? Though… I could talk to him, should you have scruples…."

"No, no, I can deal with this. I jus' thought – it'd be a further delay…" I lowered my eyes, deeply embarrassed.

Watson remained silent for a moment, and then leant forward as was his habit when he desired to make a point. "Kitty – I know this is an awkward question, but – do you in any way feel you are under obligations to present your husband with a child? As it is, I am aware of the distressing situation you found yourself in prior to your wedding…"

His voice assumed a caring, truly touching tone. "Gratitude is a wonderful thing, Kitty. But I assure you it'd be entirely wrong to assume Holmes would demand or even want you to hasten things…"

Great. Now it was I who hastened things! "Please Dr. Watson…your concerns, gratifying as they are, are really unnecessary. Mr. 'olmes and I both wish for children, and we wish for them soon, in consideration of the fact that Mr. 'olmes is –well - "

"Now I beg you, my dear girl!" Watson cried, mildly affronted. "Holmes is not yet forty. You two have all the time in the world to do everything in due order. I would precipitate nothing Kitty, you are still so young and have been married only a short time. There really was no need to come to me at this stage of things, though of course I should be glad to be of any assistance, even if it's only dispelling your anxieties."

"Well…at least we now know there is no immediate biological problem. I jus' wanted ter make sure."

"I can understand. But perhaps it would really be better if I talked to Holmes about the matter…?"

"No – really", I quickly dissuaded him. "I assure you Holmes would be all sympathy if indeed I minded…" Dear Lord, what a dreadful pack of lies. I did hardly know how to go on living with myself.

"Very well." Watson sighed a little. "I know how demanding he can be at times…just heed my advice and do not let yourself be impressed by that too much." He stooped over the health record he had set up for me, adding one or two annotations. "And I would seriously consider a holiday. I will wire to Mary, should you decide on Brighton. She could arrange for you to have a room at the same hotel, if you so wish. Mary is very content there."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson." I smiled, grateful for all his solicitousness. "I'll think about it."

oooOOOooo

I made a lengthy detour on my way home, lingering in front of shop windows on purpose. Holmes had been duly informed about the hour of my appointment with the doctor, and no doubt already awaited me to hear Watson's opinion. But I would not do him the favour of heading straight home. Loitering through the shops and advertently wasting money, it took me more than an hour to cover the relatively short distance between Queen Anne Street and Baker Street.

I placidly removed my hat and shawl at the wardrobe, entrusted Mrs. Hudson with the keeping of my parcels, and leisurely went up the stairs. As expected, Mr. Holmes was waiting for me in the sitting-room; alone, though it was the time of day he usually received clients. He pretended to be lost in a book on Faraday's findings about electromagnetism, but his eyes moved too quickly over the pages for proper reading. Mutely and sulkily I fussed with the tea things on the table, pouring out a cup which I had no intention to drink. A page was turned significantly, and Holmes lightly cleared his throat.

"Well, Kitty?"

"I complied with yer wish and went ter consult Dr. Watson", I told him evenly and without turning around.

"So – what did he say?"

"'e said that all was fine wiv me, but that it would be better, in respect to my health, if I went to stay by the seaside some time."

I balanced a cube of sugar on the tip of my teaspoon, drowning it in the turbid liquid.

"By the seaside?" He sounded a little unresolved. "Like where?"

"Like Brighton, fer example. Apparently, Mary is staying down there and could procure an accommodation fer me in 'er hotel."

"And…do you want to go?"

I turned around finally, malice written all over my face. "Does it actually matter what I want?"

He gave no reply, but got up and went to stand in front of the window, looking out with his hands buried in his pockets, chin sunken to his chest. "Very good", he said after a while. "You'll go down for a couple of weeks to improve your health. And I shall come with you."

"You!" My jaw dropped.

"Yes, I", he repeated with some asperity. "Do you see any problem with this proposition, Kitty?"

"No…I jus' wouldn't 'ave thought you'd leave yer practice simply like that. It don't seem like ya ter go on holiday spontaneously…"

"I have a correspondent in Brighton", he interrupted me, "Mr. Rutherford Vance. He is an optician and I would like to consult him."

"An optician? But yer eyesight is as acute as yer other sense are!"

He gave me a stern, piercing look, as if he wished to confirm my words. "I certainly wouldn't travel to Brighton to purchase a pair of glasses. Mr. Vance has published many notably works on the subject on vision-enhancing devices, such as magnifying glasses. I have long wished for an opportunity to discuss his findings with the author. Also, I am interested in a new type of microscope he has developed recently."

"I see. So that's why." I nodded ungraciously.

"Quite so." He looked at me earnestly, and then broke eye contact to pick up his book again. "Pray be prepared for us to depart within a week's time." And placing his pipe between his teeth, he resumed his seat and acted as though I had ceased to exist.

oooOOOooo

_Dear Natasha,_

_I am sorry to tell you that some time will pass before I can finally follow your beck and come to visit you. My husband and I are going to Brighton for the rest of the summer season for medical reasons. But do not make yourself uneasy, we are both quite well. It is only on Dr. Watson's advice that we go, for as you know, we are trying for a child and the sojourn is supposed to optimize my health. Therefore, I hope to have good news when next we meet!_

_Dear Dr. Watson. Presently he is the person most in need of a holiday, poor man, but the specialists say he is in no state for transportation. A man called Garrideb shot and wounded him superficially, well that is not his real name, but what does that matter, to Dr. Watson it's all the same. Luckily, the wound is not serious; however Mr. Holmes was very disturbed and spent nearly the entire week at the doctor's bedside. First he wanted to call off the journey, and then he decided I was to go alone, but Watson convinced him to come with me. So, we are bound to leave London tomorrow. _

_And good heavens! Time has been flying by, with all the agitation over Watson's misfortune, and so many other things to do! I have cabled to his wife, Mary, who by chance is also staying at Brighton. Her response seemed very composed, for she really is not one to lose her head; I trust she doesn't have any nerves. On the other hand, I know her to be very fond of her husband, but he's insistent that she should remain where she is. Mary has provided our accommodation, and yesterday I went to fetch the railway tickets. Also, I had to do loads of shopping. Who knows what one may need in a seaside resort! I certainly don't. _

_Oh dear – I just hope everything will be alright with you whilst I am away. I planned to come during the last week, but as I said, there was a great commotion and then Shepard's Bush is so far out of town. Try to forgive me and wish me luck for my impending adventure!_

_Ever yours, Kitty_

"Do you have the boarding tickets?"

"Yes, Mr. 'olmes."

"Your luggage ticket?"

"Yes, Mr. 'olmes."

"Your gloves?"

"Are ye trying ter send me up? O' course I 'ave everything wiv me. I am not five years of age!"

"Women are worse than children in that respect. They are always leaving their belongings behind. Sometimes I believe you'd forget your head if it were not firmly planted on your shoulders."

The locomotive gave a shrill whistle as we hustled along on the platform at Victoria, and my reply sadly was drowned by the sound. Was not that a real auspicious begin of our journey. At least I was punctual, a virtue he had yet to adopt! We owed it to his tardiness that we were late and the train was slowly beginning to stomp and roll as we reached it. Holmes held the door open for me and I got in while the train was gradually gaining in speed. It was only with a bit of a jog that he managed to get his foot on the step and vault on board, which earned us a critical look from the porter.

"Ouf, that was close!" I lapsed on my seat in the compartment we shared with an elderly couple, fanning air at my face with the luggage ticket. "Lucky thing we are bound to relax and unwind!"

The train had now rolled out of the station and high wires and brick walls were rushing by in a quick, blurred succession. I sat looking out of the window, the tip of my nose almost touching the glass. Mr. Holmes was smoking again, in spite of the largely displayed sign that he was not to do so. The elderly people abided in silent outrage.

Ten minutes later, we had left the City behind us and were crossing the waste no man's land beyond the suburbs. Thorny brushwood was soon replaced with meadows, cut into little pieces like a pie by the hedges and assiduous little water currents. I saw a desolate cottage on a hill and water birds floating on a pond. I saw a blue patch of bell flowers beneath a tree. I saw a man leading his dog along the railway tracks.

"You appear to have a bit of a _faible_ for train rides", Holmes remarked and I turned around, a little taken aback.

"What makes you say this?"

"Your face, Kitty. I do not think you have smiled as much during the whole week as you have the preceding quarter of an hour. Why's that, I wonder?"

I felt the urge to smile again, though somewhat bemused. "I have never been on holiday before."

**Gynaecology in the 1880's – well, there is still the option of burning that occurrence out of her memory, I suppose. Anyway, Watson was very comprehensive and insightful. Perhaps our odd couple will really be the better for a change!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter thirty-three: Summer Wind

26th July 1887

„_Ah! If thus in his study one must stay/ _

_And hardly sees the world upon a holiday…" Goethe's Faust _

A cab fetched us from the train station in Brighton, and within half an hour brought us to the Bay View Hotel, a spacious country house in the Queen Anne style. A blonde woman with a lacy white parasol was waiting for us in the front garden.

"Kitty! Mr. Holmes! Please, how is my poor man John?"

"Better every day, Mrs. Watson", Holmes said with the same equanimity he would have displayed had she enquired after his own condition. "I regret it has come to this, though."

"Oh dear, I am sure it was none of your fault. But how wonderful to have you here on time! Your train's punctuality affords us the time to go swimming after you've unpacked your things."

"Oh yes!" I enthused, while Holmes suddenly looked as though he suffered from stomach ache.

"Are you not joining us, Mr. Holmes?" Mary asked in good humour. In contrast to Watson's assertion, she did not strike me as _lost and lonely_ at all, but rather as someone who was having a really good time.

"My apologies, ladies, but I have an urgent appointment in the afternoon. Besides which, I don't find the notion of being grilled on the beach like a piece of raw meat especially alluring."

"An appointment already?" Mary raised one eyebrow. "Well, perhaps it'll be for the best if we had your luggage brought in. I informed the porter of your arrival hour…"

The cool shadiness of the lobby was very agreeable after the glaring sunshine in the road. I felt hot and dusty, and could not wait for the delicious, refreshing sea water to absorb me.

For a short moment, I had a vision of running down a bumpy, uneven path to a gravel-covered beach, bordered on either side by high rocks and gulls circling overhead, now and then diving down into the slate-coloured waves. But the distance between my eyes and the ground seemed smaller somehow, and my hair was undone and flying in the wind that came from the sea. There were no scars on my neck.

I could hear Mary talk to the hotel clerk and lightly shook my head to rid myself of the memory.

"Ah yes, the reservation you made for Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. Yes, a very nice double room, just on the ground floor…."

"I wonder", Holmes interrupted, smiling suavely, "whether we could not make it two separate rooms instead."

The clerk looked a little bewildered, and Mary turned her head, shooting me a quick glance. "I am such a light sleeper", I explained lamely, aware that I didn't even convince the porter, let alone Mary. Holmes appeared indifferent.

"But that is no problem at all, madam", the assiduous receptionist hurried to assure me. "First floor then, next to each other and with a grand vista of the sea. I will send up your luggage presently and…"

"I can show them up there", Mary declared. "Keys, please?"

oooOOOooo

My room was indeed vast and beautiful, and had access to the balcony running along this side of the house. It presented a view on the blue sea and white beach, sprinkled with ice-cream coloured little beach cabins that from the distance looked like construction bricks for over-sized children. Mary chatted happily about the people she had met down here while I unpacked, also London acquaintances but mainly strangers, and what they had undertaken together. All the while, she playfully fiddled with the hamper the personnel had left for me on the mahogany table as a welcoming gift. With little of a choice I ended up giving her the carambola and the Turkish delights.

Later we gathered together our swimming things and made for the beach and for the construction block-like, ice-cream coloured little shacks that lined along the quay wall.

"Dear John", Mary sighed as we went through the steep back garden and climbed the stairs that connected it with the quay, "what a shock it has all been. But honestly I see not how he manages every time to get into the greatest mess that presents itself. He _did_ know the man was armed, didn't he?"

"The criminal feigned surrender, far as I understand it. Our men did not expect 'im ter shoot."

"I just hope he didn't cause too much damage. After all, John already possesses a wound to bother him. Now imagine his arm went stiff, too! There'd be no end to his laments!"

"I am sure it won't be that bad. The doctor said 'e'd be awright in time."

"Maybe. Anyway, I'm grateful Mr. Holmes took some care of him during the past week. I don't like the thought that he's lying in hospital all alone. But what am I to do! The bullhead would scold me if I left here. He will get so awfully bored, all by himself, I know that."

"Hmmm…." I suddenly wondered whether Watson had mentioned to her that I had consulted him before coming to Brighton. She had said nothing to indicate this, but still I was not sure.

"Here we are!"

We had taken another couple of stairs from the quay down to the beach, and Mary took out a small key and fit it into the lock of the first construction block-like cabin in the row. Inside, there were a large hooded wicker chair, a stack of bathing flannels, a sou'wester and a pair of rubber boots.

"We can carry this outside later on", Mary remarked, patting the wicker seat, "together we should make it. I so hate to trouble strangers on the beach."

I picked up and curiously fingered the rubber boots. "Say, what d'ye need those for, Mary? Are ya sailin'?"

"No, but I like to go hiking in the mudflats. Collecting shells and such stuff."

"But those are men's", I assessed, inspecting them closely.

She appeared to blush a little bit. "They're John's. I have rather large feet, you know. But look what treasures I found in the tidal flat!" She reached up to a shelf and produced a small jute bag. Squatting down to the floor, she covered the rough planks with an adorable assortment of large, rosy-white shells, their interior glinting with mother-of-pearl. There also were several small starfish and a petrified mineral fossil.

"'ow lovely!" I squatted equally to examine her troves. "But ain't it frightfully dangerous out there?"

"Oh no. I always consult the tide schedule beforehand. And I never venture very far. You have no conception of how nice and peaceful it is. And the things you find! Look at this pink scallop here. Won't it look great on the mantle at home?"

"Aye…but I think we ought to change now, sun won't be high for very much longer, I fear."

"Right…" She got up and stepped on the threshold of her cabin, pointing down the row along the quay wall. "Yours is further along the way…it's got your room number on it. You can use the room key, too."

"Good. See ya baked. I won't be long!"

oooOOOooo

We exchanged our white muslins for bathing costumes, and dug a pit of sorts on the beach in which we spread our flannels and planted a tall umbrella I had found in my cabin. Mary was the first in water, for my feet were sore and tender on the coarse-grained sand, unused as I was to barefoot walking. Thus I waded insecurely into the sea, especially when the water became too deep to see the ground, and I felt every single pebble and every shell shard boring into my soles. But when I pushed off and left the ground, the waves eased around my form as I had imagined it would. I swam with long strokes, and they slid through my fingers, gave way before me and parted to rush along my body on either side, gently tugging on my hair and caressing my skin with their cool, soothing touch.

I felt free and unleashed between the far horizon and the endless sky, doubled over in the water and dived deep down, my eyes and mouth firmly closed against the salty surge and swam some yards beneath the surface, my breasts lightly grazing the rippled, sandy ground. Yet I ran short of breath before long, and I sped up to the air and the oxygen, spreading wide circles around the spot where I had emerged. I abided a minute or two until my breath had returned to a normal rate. Then I stretched myself, inhaled deeply and headed to the line of buoys at the far point where the bay met the open see, and where Mary was waiting for me.

oooOOOooo

The rays of the sun still had an astonishing power when we returned to the beach, but we hardly noticed, with the wet bathing things clinging to our slightly trembling bodies. We hastened towards our self-made nest, grappling for our flannels and quickly drying ourselves.

"Huh, cold!"

I threw myself with my stomach on the warm, soft sand, getting crumbed from head to toe. Mary giggled and joined me flat on her belly, and we lay shoulder by shoulder, lazily gazing out on the blue, watery playground we had just left.

"Perfect!" I yawned blissfully.

"Hungry", Mary contradicted in the inert, monosyllabic fashion the sun and the physical exertion had made us adopt. Suddenly, however, a shadow fell on us, and we jerked up our heads to see what had happened. A stout, elderly lady stood by the rim of our pit, looking down on us with something of a disapproving air.

"Mrs. Ragland!" Mary called, pleased and surprised, and rose to settle back on her heels.

"Mary Watson!" The lady spoke with the reproachful tone of a stern headmistress, "I must admit to being more than a little surprised, finding you here, idling on the beach, when you could improve your game of whist. You are a very poor whist-player, just so you know. Please mark that I shall expect you to do better on the upcoming Tuesday evening."

"Yes, Mrs. Ragland", Mary quickly replied, lowering her eyes although I could see a mischievous smile play around her lips. "Um…this is my friend, Mrs. Kitty Holmes. Kitty, that's Mrs. Ragland. Mrs. Holmes and her husband arrived only today", she explained in a near apologetic tone. The majestic battleship of an old woman scrutinized me minutely, and of a sudden felt very self-conscious, muddled and dirty, and did not even dare to offer my hand in a way of welcome.

"Pleasure", Mrs. Ragland uttered, just a little too late to sound spontaneous and honest, and without sounding really convinced yet. Turning back to Mary, she repeated: "Next Tuesday. Mind I expect you to be punctual and to bring your friend along. Hopefully she'll prove a better whist-player than you."

Mary nodded, still smiling secretly, and the matron had almost made up her mind to leave us alone, when she returned one more time and declared: "Madame Lavelle asked me to send her regards, should I happen to see you, Mary Watson. She told me so expressly."

And with these words, she definitely took her leave and strutted away over the beach, until only her enormous straw hat could be discerned between the other sun-bathers.

I snorted, half indignant, half amused. "What a curious old maid! She seems very sure of her authority. Mary, what's the matter with you?"

For my friend had assumed a thoughtful expression, even a little abashed. She gave an embarassed little laugh. "Nothing serious…it is just a wee bit mortifying."

"What is?"

"Madame Lavelle…." Mary briefly shrugged her shoulders. "A friend of Mrs. Ragland's. I can't quite warm to her, to be honest. I put up with her company for the old girl's sake, because I'm fond of her and like to humour her queer little whims and quirks, besides which, she really is a very good whist-player. But that Frenchwoman…she's well meaning, I'm sure, but she so gets on my nerves. There always seems to be too much energy bubbling up in that spindly body of hers. The other day she tried to convince us all to take early morning exercise, just imagine! What I mean is, we are on holiday! She'd better leave people alone."

"Well so what?"

She shrugged her shoulders again. "The other day I mentioned her in a letter to John. I was writing in the typing pool downstairs, and when I was finished, I took tea in the adjoining parlour, and forgot the letter in the typewriter. Only much later it was conveyed to me, by none else than Madame Lavelle. It should really have been no problem, for the letter was a long one and in such a case, proper names do not catch your eye so easily, not even when it's your own name. But I don't know…She's been behaving strange to me ever since, I find. I think she might have read my letter. She is that sort of person. Always so curious."

"Hum." I frowned. "Why don't you go straight to her and ask her if she read it?"

"I can't!" Mary was indignant. "What should I even say? Forgive me Madame, did you chance to read a private letter of mine in which I referred to your person as an unnerving, inquisitive old goat?"

"Mary!" I smacked my hand to my mouth. "You didn't!"

"My point exactly. But why are we worrying about such a two-penny person on a charming day like this!" In which proposition I could not argue with her.

oooOOOooo

Mary and I remained on the beach almost till sunset, and then went to clean ourselves and dress for dinner, which we had on the hotel patio overlooking the bay. My lips still smacked of salt, and there was sand in my hair and between my toes and everywhere. Mary looked glowing and radiant, every inch of skin that was revealed by her light violet calico dress seemed to be kissed by the sun. Her flaxen hair, bleached by the sea and the light, was knotted into a very _laissez-faire_ bun, too negligent for London standards, but perfectly accordant with the summer visitors that surrounded us. We stayed till it was all dark and the lamps were lit. Then we decided to retire because of the crane flies.

"I'm so happy you have come", Mary prattled as we turned in, "I was really longing for a familiar face. We will have lots of fun together. You must accompany me on Tuesday, I daren't face the dear old witch all alone. And next week, there's going to be a dance at the Royal Pavillon. Have you ever been there? Oh, you'll love it!"

We had reached the base of the stairs and had to say good night because Mary lodged on the ground floor. "Sleep well, dear! And au revoir tomorrow!"

She took my face into her hands and cordially kissed me on either cheek. "Nighty night!"

And off she was. I smiled and mounted the stairs, wearily, for the day had started early and it was ten o' clock after all. So heedless did I turn around the corner that I very nearly collided with Mr. Holmes.

"For heaven's sake!" he snarled angrily, but calmed down immediately. "Oh, it's you. Did you and Mrs. Watson spend an agreeable afternoon?"

"Very agreeable", I confirmed. "But how about you? Have you been…successful?"

"Indeed I have. I had an expansive interview with Mr. Vance. We dined out and he introduced me to some of his colleagues. A whole lot of bright, inventive young heads, and all first-rate scientists."

"That's good to hear."

We were now standing in front of our neighbouring doors, and the old feeling of bashfulness arose. I hesitated and looked up at him furtively. He blinked, and narrowed his eyes. "Look at me again!" He commanded, and I obeyed mechanically.

"Dear, dear. You will have to be more careful in the days to come", he remarked commiseratively. "That will probably hurt tomorrow."

"What d'ye…"

"Burnt", he explained, raising his hand to my face to indicate the nature of my affliction, but retracting it awkwardly before his fingertips could touch my skin.

"Impossible!" I exclaimed, palming the nether part of my face. He was right, though. I could feel a distinct sting and noticed the way my skin had started to peel off the nose. "But Mary and I 'ave been lying beneath an umbrella all afternoon!"

"You've spent too much time in the water then. The slight shrivel of the skin on your arms is there to prove it."

"Blast!" I examined my reddened arms while Holmes tutted reprobatively. "I don't understand this! Mary hain't been burnt! Not one bit!"

"She's been here longer and got a tan to screen her from the harsher effects of the sunlight. Besides, I dare say she was less susceptible than you from the start."

"Not fair!" I groused, annoyed.

"Just take some more care, Kitty. When on the beach, you must wear a hat, or use a parasol. Your skin is very delicate, very sensible. We don't want it to get…hurt, do we?"

I observed him with surprise. He smiled one of his heartbeat-length smiles.

"No", I said softly, "we certainly don't."

And a trifle bemused, we wished each other good night.

**Arrrh, sorry that took really long. I was feeling uninspired and kind of stuck. But a creative pause helps and so here we go again with our timid romance. What do you think of Holmes' "working holiday"? Is it not very inconsiderate towards Kitty? Well, at least there is Mary to take care of her! Two grass widows on the beach…**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter thirty-four: Covering distance

29th July 1887

„_Ah, linger on! Thou art so fair!" Goethe's Faust_

One day sometime after our arrival in Brighton, it came to pass that Mary was invited by friends to visit some sights out of town in their four-wheeler. She asseverated that they would have loved to take me also, but it so happened that they were just four persons and had no spare room in the carriage. So I was somewhat irked when descending for breakfast at half past nine, and even more so when finding that Holmes was embroiled in a French conversation with a meager, middle-aged woman, grey on her head and with lots of lace cuffs around her parched neck and wrists. Anyway, the lady excused herself shortly afterwards to return to her own table, sensing my annoyance. I wondered whether she might not be the same Madame Lavelle Mary had talked about, but refrained from inquiring.

Placing my napkin over my knees, I observed: "I am surprised to find you still in the 'otel. You have been an early riser recently."

He leant back and exhaled white cigarette smoke. "You are correct, I probably wouldn't be here, but Mr. Vance is engaged elsewhere today, so learned conversation is out."

"I 'ope your chat wiv Madame was a li'le consolation. As it happens, Mary and her companions are gone for the day to do some further-off sights, so we both o' us seem ter be left to our own devices."

"Indeed!" He drew on his cigarette. "Do you get seasick?" he suddenly inquired in his erratic fashion.

"I don't think so. Why would ya ask that?"

"Oh, I intended to go out on a boat today, and if it is just to avoid getting bored. You might like to keep me some company."

"On a…boat?" I repeated stupidly. "Surely you mean…"

He smiled superciliously. "My dear Kitty, one of the precious few advantages of growing up in the country is attaining some adroitness in all sorts of open air activities. So yes, I am capable of sailing a boat, believe it or not, and I am equally capable of riding a horse, though I vividly remember your refusal to accredit me with this ability."

I turned red all over when I recalled the scene with the riding crop. "O' course I believe you, Mr. 'olmes. I've seen ye do more remarkable things than sailing a boat."

"Excellent!" He took a last sip from his coffee cup and extinguished his cigarette. "I will meet you on the quay, then. Half an hour!"

oooOOOooo

With very little time left to get ready, I started without reflection of what I was getting into. I changed into a navy blue linen dress, covered my head with my newly acquired flat straw hat, and hurried down the garden and the stairs. Walking the quay and looking around me, I had a hard time to find him amongst the multitude of sailboats that were berthing or casting off the pier.

"You had better be careful, my dear", Holmes taunted, suddenly standing behind me, "Your eyes might fall out at that strain. Be pleased to step over here!"

He jumped into the sailboat tied up closest to us and extended his arm to help me get in. "Sit down!" he ordered when the dinghy began to jiggle with our weight badly outbalanced, "I do not have the least mind of dragging you out of the water if you topple over, so watch out for yourself."

I followed his amiable invitation while he wound up the hawser from the bollard and started to tamper with the diverse lines of the sails. He issued a gush of French curses under his breath as he worked, repeatedly hissing "_Fichtre_!" and evidently accusing his non-present predecessor of slovenliness in the strongest possible terms.

Finally we got going, however. The small dinghy glided out of its secure haven, and bit by bit we left the other boats behind us. I watched the shore move away; saw everything becoming smaller, the houses, the people; the umbrellas on the beach. A cool breeze got caught in my open hair and the ribbons of my hat, and the sails billowed.

"Where are we aiming to?" I called, and Mr. Holmes answered: "The neighbouring cove. I trust myself with sailing around the cliff on a calm day like this, but we shouldn't go further out on the open sea."

"No, re'lly."

We had passed the line of buoys that marked the furthest permitted point for swimmers, and Holmes struck the sails, so that we floated on the undisturbed surface, subjected to near to no drift.

"Good heavens, what a mess. A very inept drunkard must have sailed the boat before us", Holmes pondered, sitting down and resting against the rail. The pause between two cigarettes apparently had been a long one for him, since he almost instantly retrieved his case and struck a match on the sole of one of his canvas shoes.

"Don't!" I wrinkled my nose. "All yer smoke comes straight at me, Mr. 'olmes!"

He watched me pensively before flipping his cigarette over the rail. "Kitty my dear, I must admit I am quite weary of that constant _Misterolmes_. Would you not like to finally call me by my admittedly somewhat cumbrous Christian name? I have been using yours almost ever since I knew you."

"No, Mr. 'olmes!" I declared severely. "No, I don't think that'd be a good idea at all!"

He grinned lop-sided. "Just as you please. Now, do you want us to proceed? We could have a cup of coffee somewhere along the coast. Or would you prefer an early luncheon?"

"Neither. I would prefer to just sit 'ere for a while…enjoy the weather."

"Ah, which reminds me…" He reached into the jacket of his light summer suit, producing a small bottle of whitish, greasy liquid.

"What's this?"

"Just some Vaseline. As it is, I am susceptible to the sun almost to the same degree as you. And I'm afraid that hiding beneath a parasol is an option not open to one of my sex."

He squeezed a small quantity into his palm and handed me the bottle, quickly spreading the Vaseline over his face and neck. I imitated him, carefully avoiding my loose hair in the process.

"Now that's better. Any crayfish would have taken you for one of his kind the other day. But meanwhile, you have at least the hint of a tan. Actually – " he squinted his eyes and smiled, "I believe you're growing freckles!"

"Oh, ripping!" I made a face, but he only laughed at me.

"Never you mind. I find it very becoming. And your little niece had them aplenty, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yeah, it was worse wiv me when I was a chile", I conceded, "but I was more in the open air then, anyways. I too was brought up in the country, as you know."

"Tell me about it", he demanded in a tone that did not permit contradiction. "Tell me what it was like."

And I told him. I told him about my early life in the county of Kerry, on the southwestern coast of Ireland. I told him about our dear old house, standing in a patch of wood, boggy grassland rising behind it, a damp and misty ground in the early hours of the morning. I described the smoky fireplace in the kitchen, the small cushioned gazebo in the living room and the secret passage behind the oak panel which connected the landing with the nursery.

Memories resurfaced of my pleasant brother Jonathan, loyal playtime companion, and of my not-so-pleasant sister Annie, always envious and scheming against me. I tried to explain to Holmes the gables of the roof as they could be seen from the vegetable garden, my love for our useless, blind old Brindle, whiling away his days in the stable, and the beauty of my mother, famous and unequalled in all of Kerry.

"Sounds quite idyllic", Mr. Holmes commented when I had ended. "What happened to spoil it?"

I smiled sadly. "My father was an agrarian, but the land we lived on was not 'is. It belonged to an association, and when they enacted saving reforms, we 'ad to quit. The house and the land were sold to some minted feller who had ta'en a fancy to't, an' we did the same loike so many others – left the country and came to London."

"It must have been difficult…especially for you, the children."

"It was not easy for me parents neither. My father found a job in a factory, but it was line production, an' he never could get used to it. My mother was luckier. A painter discovered her as a model, and from this time she was rarely out of work. That was the great luck of the family…but my ruin, as it turns out."

He watched me shrewdly. "What made you follow in your mother's footsteps?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "What else could I 'ave done? Without a proper education, the only alternative would 'ave been to become a seamstress, and for that I could not drag myself outta my chair. My mother found me my first employment, an' gradually I made my way into the artistic milieu. I was but sixteen when I first moved in wiv one o' my painters. I couldn't stand it at 'ome any longer, the cramped space an' my father's depressions an' Annie worse than ever wiv 'er first baby on the way."

"I can understand", he remarked guardedly.

"So…I lived for a while wiv Clive, but that was neither 'ere nor there, so we parted after some months. I don't seem ter remember what I did immediately afterwards. I was handed from man ter man, it seems. It wa'n't no good time, unhealthy and unstable. Then my mother died, an' my brother went away ter join the marine. Father started ter drink…Annie an' her ne'er-do-well 'usband producing 'un chile after the other…an' father 'e died little later."

"I am sorry."

"No, I'm glad. I'm glad 'e didn't live ter see me like that – the way I was after Baron Gruner. It would 'ave broken 'is heart like nothing else."

We were silent for a while. Then he abruptly said: "I lost my mother at the age of twelve."

I shot a keen glance at him, simultaneously sorry for him and pleased that he should tell me this. "I 'ad no idea. What happened?"

"My grandmother took me to France", he said brusquely, avoiding an answer to my actual question. Again we were silent. I felt a great urge to take his impassive hand into mine, and considered whether I might safely do that, but he seemed to have a premonition and moved out of my reach, carefully re-establishing the distance between us.

oooOOOooo

When he again set sail to move on, conversation became impossible. I sat in the bow, back against the direction of motion, and secretly mused about what kind of woman the late Mrs. Holmes might have been. Had she been cold; a cruel mocker like Mycroft? Or had she been like her younger son, kind and generous, but hard to read? Watson had told me her first name had been Violet. What did a woman called Violet usually look like?

Perhaps there was a family resemblance. Perhaps she had been handsome. Mr. Holmes was handsome, I suddenly thought, not overly, not conventionally, but he always looked good, he had a certain _thing _to make him attractive. He even looked good now, messing with the lines, although his hat threatened to fall off his head, and everything around him was _fichu_ and _sacré_. He was having a hard time with something, but eventually we arrived in the next bight, due to wind and water rather than his skill I suppose, though I was anxious not to pronounce this suspicion. We ran aground with a scratching sound.

"We're there, Kitty. Welcome to…well, the second inlet to the right."

"There are still some inches o' wa'er ter wade", I ascertained, leaning over the rail. He was already taking off his shoes and rolling up the ends of his trousers over the ankles.

"I shall carry you", he determined, stepping out of the boat and into the water with the most dignified air.

"Don't be silly. What d'ye take me for? A malnourished fairy, eighteen years old?"

"It is entirely up to you_. I_ wouldn't mind leaving you here in the boat until my return. I just presumed _you_ were unlikely to take a fancy to this proposition."

"Fine by me!" I insecurely climbed on the rail and slid my arms around his neck. The feel of his arms around my waist and my knees made me cringe internally, but at the same time I relished the simple intimacy, with his face closer to mine than it had probably ever been.

"D'ye re'lly think this is going to work?" I muttered anxiously, when all my weight had definitely left the rail and rested in his hold.

"Pray what do you take _me_ for?" he gnarled, cautiously treading the uneven ground. "One more obtuse inquiry, and you'll walk, new dress and all!"

Whereupon I rapidly shut my mouth and left it shut.

oooOOOooo

We had tea on the terrace of a café high above the cove, from whence we could observe our boat, softly swaying in the groundswell. The cypresses planted around the free space, which was covered with chalky white coastal rubble, lent the place a southern atmosphere, and if one ignored the knowledge that we found ourselves only a few miles west of Brighton, one might have believed we were somewhere on the South European Riviera.

I uneasily stirred my cup. For quite some time now, I had been trying to steer the conversation back to our family lives, or rather to Holmes' family life, but it had been in vain. I sensed that he was as reluctant to discuss his past as he had been eager to discuss mine, for whatever reason. I had pondered several strategies, but finding that none of them worked out, I hazarded a frontal attack.

"Mr. 'olmes?"

"Hmm?" He was smoking again. What else.

"I – you told me about your mother terday. Surely her loss was as painful t'yer father as the loss o' my mother was to my father. I wonder how it affected him…'ow it affected you, as a family…"

Holmes enveloped himself in smoke and silence. A thin line had formed between his eyebrows.

"What I mean is…you were very young…an' yer bruvver, too…" I blabbed on desperately. "But perhaps…_probably_…yer father tried to…substitute…" I fell silent shamefacedly. Good God, I knew what he was thinking. He found me perversely inquisitive and indelicate, and I was, possibly. Lowering my head, I stabbed the sugary residue at the bottom of my cup with a tea spoon. An uncomfortable minute passed by. Then Mr. Holmes said:

"Kitty."

I looked up and forced myself to gaze into his eyes, into the black pupils within their slate coloured irises.

"I'd like to ask you something", he said calmly, "a favour."

"A…favour, Mr. 'olmes?"

"Yes. When we – when we have children, will you please try your best to be fond of them?"

I opened my mouth to express my bewilderment, but he continued: "Under the circumstances, it would, perhaps, be natural if you didn't. Still…pray try and treat them as if…well, like you treated Fanny and her brother. You know me, you know I am myself of no use in that department – "

Again I tried to interject something, but he wouldn't let me.

"…and I presume you'd make a better parent than I could ever hope to be. That is all", he said with an air of finality, and I nodded hesitantly, committing myself to I knew not exactly what.

"Thank you. And now – " he checked his watch and compared the time with the position of the sun, "we ought to be on our way back. In the late afternoon, it gets cold on the water."

I waited until he had settled the bill, and then rose to trudge after him. I felt deceived because my day with Holmes had come to an end, and because through his words, through reminding why we were here, it had been just the tiniest bit tainted.

**Hmm. That one was really a lot about distance, about creating and overcoming and again creating it. Perhaps both our characters are being a little peculiar, this time. But all things considered, I find they are progressing. There is some keen sympathy between them - in spite of everything. **

**Love, Mrs.F**


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter thirty-five: Much to hope

31st July 1887

„_Let this blossom's word/_

_be oracle of gods to you!" Goethe's Faust_

In the flower picking department, Mary possessed an assiduity that was not to be beaten.

"Over here, Kitty! See those lovely columbines. I can't leave them here!"

"Taike care! Ya'll fall into the creek!" I warned her, straightening and sorting my bunch of red cyclamen into a bouquet. She did not mind me, gathered her skirts in one hand and balancing herself with the other, she crossed the little current on protruding stones. Happily arrived on the other side, she made her way through stinging- and deadnettle, and stooped out of sight.

I left her and went across the small grove, back to the clearing where we had deposited Mr. Holmes, sitting against the cut trunk of a tree and reading the local gazetteer. He looked up as soon as he heard me, whistling as he perceived my crop.

"My word Kitty, do you intend to open up a flower shop? This has to be the fifth or sixth bouquet you bring. You must be getting quite warm with the exertion." He patted the blanket on the damp, mossy ground. "Sit down, my dear child, and take a break from floral mongering."

"It is very cool and refreshing by the brook", I contradicted, nonetheless lowering myself to my knees and adding my bunch of flowers to the loads Mary and I had picked so far. "The blossoms of early summer are gone by now, but we're determined ter carry off what's left."

"And you deem them prettier now that you've severed their stalks?" he asked, cocking his head to the side.

I contemplated our merchandise. True, the petals were crinkling already, and the leaves of my cyclamen had furled like so many goose quills. I shrugged my shoulders, a tad annoyed. "'ow d'ye suggest we taike 'em home? We can't dig them out, roots an' all, can we?"

"I did not suggest you remove them from their habitat", he lectured me down. "Some things are better left where they are, undisturbed. But you're too young to understand that."

"And you are too young to talk to me in this fatherly tone", I returned snippily. "The truth is; you simply do not care for flowers, aye? They can't contribute t'yer cause, an' therefore are dispensable and burdensome."

He smiled haughtily. "A logical deliberation, I must own, but still you arrive at the wrong conclusion. I am particularly fond of flower as it is, especially because they are dispensable. A pleasant sight _is_ dispensable, but why should that keep me from admiring it? These flowers, for example…"

He picked up one of the dark, ruby red cyclamen and pensively turned them over between his fingers.

"Their tint seems to me far too fair. But I even like it better in the rose – my favourite, you know. One cannot but admire the delicate turn of its stem, resembling the neck of an elegant woman, the shape and glow of its petals, their fragrance…"

He seemed so absent minded suddenly, and I recalled the two dozens of red roses I had received on the morrow of our nuptials. Unmindful of his preference, I had taken the choice for an arbitrary one, signaling marital affection for the servant's benefit.

He must have caught on with my thoughts, for he laughed shortly, putting the flower aside. "You, on the other hand, seem to find the wild growing species more covetable…"

I smiled, caught off guard. "Perhaps it ain't that in particular. I like the smaller flowers better, flowers that grow in cushions or garlands, easy to come by e'en in the City."

"Is that so? Which one is your favourite, then?"

"The Bleeding Heart…I think." I averted my gaze, feeling a little foolish, and was glad when Mary stepped out of the brush, deep purple columbines in both her arms. I hurried to relieve her of her bittersweet smelling cargo, and she slid to the ground with a contented sigh.

"Enough for today! We have a condign mite to contribute to the flower committee's effect. The ladies will be overjoyed. And the Royal Pavillon will look such a sight tonight!"

Holmes had assumed his customary, somewhat bored expression, hidden behind the Brighton Gazette, but Mary scrutinized the front page with interest. "Is there something new about the preparations in Paris, Mr. Holmes? It's going to be such a big event. John and I are determined to visit the Great Exhibition next year, come what may…"

"There is an article about a construction firm named Eiffel. Apparently, they entertain the somewhat ambitious plan of building the world's highest edifice, a tower in light-metal design." And he turned the page to show us the picture of a model for the planned tower, and a photograph of the base already installed on the _champs de mars_.

"I say!" Mary raised her brows. "That'll cause outrage among the Parisians. The thing is spoiling the entire cityscape. And you can't even use it for whatever purpose!"

"It probably will, though technically, I find it a rather engaging project. However, a contract was signed to the effect that the whole thing will have to be taken down again in the course of twenty years."

"It looks so scary", I murmured, "like a skeleton alright…or like a factory funnel…."

We were disturbed in our perusal of the newspaper by a strident female voice, and turning our heads, we found ourselves joined by the head of the flower committee and her (voluntary?) assistants. The lady was none other but Madame Lavelle, lined with lace more than ever, and her gentlemen helpers were Colonel Kingcaid, also a guest at the Bay View Hotel, and a young man called Youghal, resident in Brighton. Both gentlemen were equipped with large flower baskets.

"How good to find you here!" Madame hailed us, beaming all over her thin, haggard face. "I trust you have been diligent? Oh, don't tell me, I can see that you have. Youghal, would you mind…? Thank you so much. Oh, you ought to see the Pavillon, dear ladies, if it weren't supposed to be a surprise. But I see Mr. Holmes is not participating in our assignment!" She frowned a little.

"I consider it the great privilege of my sex to be exempted from such services, Madame", Holmes smiled acquiescently. "Should a mystery of any sort occur in the scope of your undertaking, the case would of course be a different one."

The elderly woman sulked visibly. Youghal, her youthful assistant, had hurried to gather up all the flowers we had been able to find, and put them into the baskets with great care. He was a sensitive, nervous chap who preferred obliging others to displeasing them, and I suspected that he had got involved in the decorations for the ball for exactly that reason. Mary, rolling her eyeballs at Madame's exaggerated zeal, had also got up to lend the youth a hand. As usual, he acted very courteously, but a trifle awkwardly whenever Mary was around. I suddenly hoped that he was aware of her situation, and did not take her for an unwed woman.

"We shall carry the florets to their destination immediately, so that they're not the worse for lack of water", the Colonel suggested, jumping into the air a bit as he used to do whenever there was a slack of action. Like Madame, he had energy stores that were astounding for any man or woman in their fifties. "It'll enable Mr. Holmes to have a quiet picnic with his two charming women, eh?" And he winked conspiratorially.

"Very well. We shall see you tonight, I suppose," Madame Lavelle observed sourly. "Youghal! Come here, we're leaving." I imagined she was looking expressly at Mary when saying this.

Indeed the young man was to the fore at her call, a bit like a dog retrieving, bringing her the flower in their baskets. If my eyes did not deceive me, he hazarded a last, longing glance at my friend. There was a little pause during which Madame looked over the flowers, Holmes stuffed his pipe and Colonel Kincaid dangled his arms and legs because there was nothing else to do.

Then the Frenchwoman determined: "To the Pavillon, then. _Allez donc_. Mr. Holmes!" she turned at my husband, "The ball will start at nine o' clock sharp, so please see to it that you and your company are reasonably on time. And keep in mind that the excessive consumption of alcoholic beverages is harmful to body and soul, as is smoking – " she eyed his pipe disapprovingly, "and that you oughtn't stay too late, so that your healthy rhythm of daily routine is not in jeopardy. I actually intend to encourage some of our hotel guests to taking physical exercise in the early hours of the morning, which is an appropriate antidote to faineance and indolence – "

"Oh, do you? When will we start?" The Colonel was all for it. As they withdrew, he and Madame were vividly discussing the advantages of gymnastic exercise over swimming rounds. Mr. Youghal, carrying both the flower baskets, was trudging behind them.

"Good heavens!" Mary watched their retreating forms with misgiving. "If she's serious with her scheme, I'm going to move out! I'm on holiday!"

"Oh, she does have a point, you know", Holmes said calmly. "A bit of exercise would not go remiss with many of us. After all, an idle brain is the devil's workshop. Nevertheless…" he opened our picnic hamper and retrieved the glasses and a bottle of champagne, "shall we indulge ourselves in alcohol, faineance and indolence while there's still time?"

Neither Mary not I would object seriously. With the flowers gone, we had plenty of room on our blanket, and bit by bit we emptied the hamper of its other content, including cold pheasant, white bread and _paté foie gras_. We had even succeeded in coaxing Mr. Holmes out from behind his paper, when Mary, opening the cranberry jar, pointed with her chin at the path at the side of which we were camping. "Look!"

A small dogcart was rattling along the bumpy road and the single man inside seemed to wave at us. I sighed. "P'raps we should 'ave gone someplace further off the track…"

"Everything is fine with me as long as it's not that lunatic woman again", Mary snorted, while Mr. Holmes rose and slowly ambled towards the cart, drawing on his pipe. He and the driver appeared to know each other, for they conversed unhurriedly for some minutes, before the man gave his pony the whip and drove on. Mary and I had watched them silently, with her eating and me fumbling around idly in the grass.

"Well?" Mary reached for a napkin and dabbed her mouth as my husband returned and resumed his place by the tree trunk.

"It was my learned friend, Mr. Rutherford Vance. He came to ask us for lunch, but seeing that we're already catered for, he asked us for tea instead. We are to call on him at five in the afternoon."

"But the ball, Mr. Holmes!" Mary almost dropped her napkin, looking at him with widening eyes.

"What of it? At a pinch, we'll arrive a little later, that is all. To _me_, it is all the same._ I_ am just doing you a favour by splitting myself between you and Kitty as a dance partner….not that you'll suffer from a shortage of admirers", he teased her. "So, do not worry Mrs. Watson, you shall have sufficient time to do your hair, no need for concern. Kitty, what the deuce are you fiddling with?"

"Nothing", I replied, quickly hiding my hands in the folds of my skirt. I had myself only just become aware that I had picked a daisy, and from old childhood's custom had plucked off its petals, alternatingly repeating in my head: He loves me…loves me not…he loves me…loves me not…

While Holmes and Mary were still taunting each other with their manifold respective vanities, I tossed the small flower away in annoyance. How stupid to relapse into long abandoned habits like this!

oooOOOooo

Mr. Rutherford Vance was a small man with a grey grizzled beard and a pair of enormous glasses, which left the impression that he was acting as a living advertisement for his trade. His house, a spacy villa close to one of the chalk cliffs descending steep into the sea, was a museum of sorts, all crammed with curiosities and optical instruments.

After having satisfied himself, by means of a test involving letters and signs on a blackboard and a strange experimental spectacle frame, that my and Mary's eyesight was unimpaired, he insisted on showing us all over the place.

"This is my darkroom", he declared proudly, opening the door to a gloomy chamber for us to peep in. "I have a large collection of cameras, both older and newer types. See that black box over there? Look straight through its hole, dear ladies. It is a _camera obscura_, a visionary device used by painter in the preceding centuries. Well my dear, what do you perceive?"

"Nothing much", I confessed, retracting my head to make room for Mary. "Ever'thing's jus' upside down an' mirror-inverted."

"It's supposed to, it's supposed to be so, my dear young lady!" He hurried to usher us into the adjoining room, leaving me to wonder about what any painter might require the curious contraption for.

"Is _that_ the subject o' yer discussion wiv Mr. Vance?" I quietly asked my husband.

"Oh no, no, we mainly research the practical use of lenses and prisms. I believe this here is what you might call his hobby horse."

We passed through the door and found ourselves on a kind of verandah, large glass panes offering a view out on the coastal panorama. Mr. Vance was assiduously fussing with several middle-seized objects sorted together on a table, and waved at Mary, who, after one last confused glance into the camera, had entered the verandah after us.

"Now take this bonny little thing, Mrs. Watson. Turn it."

He had handed her a white, oval piece of paperboard on a brazen stand. On one side of the paperboard, a bird cage was printed, on the other, a nightingale as seen from the side. When Mary flipped the board, the two pictures changed so quickly that everything was blurred before the eye and they seemed to merge into one: A nightingale sitting in a cage.

"Oh, bravo!" I softly clapped my gloved hands. "A lovely toy indeed."

"A toy?" Mr. Vance tutted and shook his head. "It is more than that. Just step over here, Mrs. Holmes. Take this and tell me what you see."

"Why…it's a spin wheel", I answered hesitantly. "A spin wheel wiv a strip o' paper glued to the inner side. And on the slip, little black horses are printed, in various poses and attitudes."

"Spin it", he summoned me, and I spun the wheel, making the strip turn round and round so fast that the succeeding horse sketches struck the observer as one single horse galloping.

I laughed gleefully. "My, this is pretty!"

"An optical deception", Holmes remarked, "designed to suggest the impression of real motion to the correlative cerebral centres. Is that not so, Mr. Vance?"

"Absolutely, Mr. Holmes!" The optician beamed at the success of his curious treasures. "But I am a mere amateur in this field. However, my esteemed colleague, Mr. Friese-Greene, also living here in Brighton, is a great specialist in cinematography. He has invited for a garden party on next Tuesday, by the way, and he gave a hint that he would be delighted to see you there, and any company you might like to bring."

"Why not", Holmes replied tersely, somewhat unnerved by the endless succession of parties in this town. "I suppose the ladies would like to…"

"I would, certainly, but I accepted an invitation of Mrs. Ragland's for Tuesday", Mary regretted. "It is her whist day, and I couldn't fail her…"

"Whist!" Mr. Vance threw up his arms exasperatedly. "The host is showing a motion picture, you just can't miss that for the sake of a whist party!"

"I'm very sorry!" Mary smiled apologetically. "But a promise is a promise."

"Well…" Mr. Vance sighed and turned at me hopefully. "But you would like to come, would you not?"

"Very much", I assured him, and Holmes graciously inclined his head.

"Jolly good!" Mr. Vance was consoled. "But look at the clock! I am really an abominable host. My apologies, but it takes my new parlour maid an eternity to prepare some tea. Now what could we do to pass the meantime? Shall we take a nice photograph, perhaps?"

"Oh yes!" Mary and I chanted, and Holmes shrugged his shoulders irritably, thought I caught him furtively passing a hand over his skull so as to smoothen his hair.

"This way then! Please to follow me, ladies…Mr. Holmes…"

The men went ahead into the inner rooms, and we followed suit. "What's a motion picture?" Mary enquired in a whisper. "And what is cinematography, anyway?"

"No idea", I whispered back.

**Oh yes…the language of flowers…sigh…**

**Dear dear, left it for long again! Well, Easter plus a short trip to Munich (ever been there? place is like - CRAMMED with English-speaking folks!) provides an appropriate excuse, I reckon. **

**In my opinion, Holmes and Kitty are REALLY progressing. I mean, he no longer snaps off her head at every opportunity. The question is only whether Kitty'll be satisfied with that for long. So what/ how much will be effected by their marital timeout?**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter thirty-six: Stars and Butterflies

31st July 1887

"_I never fitted in society at all." Goethe's Faust_

We overstayed our time at Mr. Vance's mansion, so that, hurry as we might, we could not possibly make it till nine. Therefore, we prepared for the dance leisurely, and appeared at the hired cab at half past. Mary and I had put on our theatre cloaks, for although the day had been a sunny one, the air was now too fresh with a little wind blowing, at least for our bare shoulders. Mr. Holmes, self-enamoured, was tugging on the end of a white cashmere scarf, admiring the effect in the reflecting cab window.

"We ought ter get goin'", I urged him. "Pray make haste and step into the brougham. Otherwise, all of us will be blown away in the gust! Mr. 'olmes 'as managed ter lose weight in Brighton, you know", I told Mary, who was impatiently treading from one foot to the other. She had been very eager to arrive punctually, and now fostered anxieties that my husband's narcissism might cause us further delay.

At my words, however, she laughed out loud. "Don't be ridiculous. Mr. Holmes doesn't even have any weight to lose. And I've never heard of any man or woman who achieved that while on holiday."

"Well, call me crazy. P'raps it is because Mrs. 'udson ain't 'ere ter pamper 'im?"

"Dear ladies!" Holmes was affronted. "I do not pride myself on my particular politeness, but I must say it is very inconsiderate on your part to discuss my personal concerns in my presence. And above all, I thought it were your, the ladies', health which to improve we were envisaging. Wasn't it?"

And with an air of wounded pride, he flicked out his hand to assist us in mounting the cab.

"He is so _very_ sensitive", Mary complained quietly, before Holmes stepped in and was seated opposite us. With the upper end of his cane, he trenchantly hit the carriage roof.

"To the Royal Pavillon, cabbie! And be quick about it!"

oooOOOooo

The Pavillon is a large, domed building, modeled after the palaces of the maharajas. It is situated on a wide open space above one of the most frequented beaches in Brighton. The name is derived from the fact that the edifice was constructed by the Royal family, and only recently passed out of the queen's hands into public possession. Nowadays, it is mostly used as a venue for festivities by the summer guests, being home to the Brighton Ball every month during the season.

As we approached the building in our brougham, I hung my head out of the window, only to be pulled back by Mr. Holmes, into whose face a scandalized frown had etched the word _unseemly_. Mary giggled.

The carriages of the visitors had been parked a little off beneath some birches, and it was there that our cabman drew in the reigns. "We're there, guv'nor!"

Alighting in plain view of the palace, Mary and I could see that Madame Lavelle and her subservient ones had done a good day's work: The brightly illuminated entrance was bedecked with honeysuckle, pink roses and white carnations. It was flanked by solemn footmen, who made me feel a bit self-conscious, considered that we were rather too late. But such feelings were unfamiliar to my companions.

Mary passed the men as though they were air, and my husband only stopped to drop our names. I wondered about the discrepancies in our behaviour, and arrived at the conclusion that it had to be education-conditioned. To Holmes, and even to Mary the governess, middle-class society had always been a kind of exclusive club of which they had possessed membership since the day of their birth. And I was, most likely, the alien in the stranger's room.

Chasing away these contemplations with a defiant toss of my head, I followed them into the lounge, which was closely packed with people. My eyes searched for familiar faces among them, but found only teardrop lamps, crème coloured Chippendale sofas and long mirrors in massive gold frames on the wall. My husband silently helped us out of our cloaks, and vanished into the direction of the wardrobe lady, while someone handed Mary and me our dance cards.

"I'm so looking forward to dancing!" My friend beamed. "I only wonder whether there'll be enough eligible candidates?"

"By all means, my dear child! By all means!"

With a little ballet-like leap, Colonel Kincaid came to our side, out of the blue. He had the somewhat confusing habit of calling everyone "dear child" or even "poppet", regardless of gender, age, and general congruity with these terms.

"Won-der-ful! So what do we have here?" he avidly scribbled his name on both our cards. "Today must be my lucky day. One _Allemande_ with Mary fair and one _Musette_ with angelic Kitty. Ha, did you know that one, by the way? Says one chap: My wife is an angel. Says the other: Oh, boy! But mine is still alive!"

He wanted to burst with laughter, but became serious within an instant. Returning our dance cards, he gravely averred: "Do not listen to me, my dear children, do not listen. You know I love _all_ women."

We had no chance to reply however, for the wiry little man cried: "Oh, here comes Mr. Holmes! How are you, my dear boy? Did I tell you the delicious joke of the chap who says…"

"Yes, yes, you did that, Colonel", Holmes replied irritably, sending on a sigh that seemed to signify: "Repeatedly."

"You will, I'm sure, excuse us, but I couldn't possibly withhold the ladies from their first dance any longer…"

"I understand, of course, of course", the Colonel affirmed slyly, with a bogus indulgence that in a very charming way ridiculed Holmes' flimsy excuse. "Well, we will meet again in the course of the evening, I daresay. Until then, my duckies! Adieu, adieu, adieu!" And he pirouetted away. Holmes groaned with annoyance.

"Good riddance! We have shrugged off the insufferable cretin."

"I rather like him", Mary observed, and I nodded intently.

"God Almighty." Holmes chose not to enlarge the subject of Colonel Kincaid. He guided us toward the alleyway between the anteroom and the ball room, which was equally crowded with dancing couples.

They whirled across the shiny maple floor to the ring of a lively waltz, the ladies in low-cut summer dresses and with flowers in their hair, the gentlemen in linen suits. The lackey to our left announced our arrival with a booming voice. "Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Mary Watson!"

In spite of his stentorian voice, our entry hardly attracted attention at all among the other guests.

"What splendour!" Mary smilingly turned around herself. "I've attended last month's ball you know, but then the hall was not so adorably decorated. Our batty Madame is good for something, after all. _And_ it was definitely less populated last time."

I felt inclined to believe her. The dance floor was virtually stuffed with bows, frills and tulle, and although the pairs were dancing rather closely, the feathers of the ladies' headgears occasionally got entangled with that of the neighbour. Also the sitting booths around the wall were occupied without exception by those whose feet were aching too badly or who were plainly too exhausted to go on dancing.

The floor was further limited by a bar to the left, where the champagne was flowing abundantly, and to the right by a podium for the musicians. They just intoned "_Les Pâtineurs au glâce_", and indeed the blank surface of the floor conveyed the impression of a frozen lake upon which audacious young people were slithering rumbustiously.

Holmes stared at the violinists' instruments with yearning, while Mary brought to my attention the way our friends from the hotel had wound the podium with periwinkle, and the vases they had erected between the sitting booths, stocked with orchids and birds of paradise. Even the high stucco ceiling had been adorned, by some brave person, free from giddiness and appareled with a ladder or very long legs.

The room as a whole was filled with a wonderful scent, the aroma of the flowers mixed with the salty smell of the sea, for the far end of the room opened to a stony porch above the beach, and the long windows were folded forward.

"It's dreamy", I sighed; only to be elbowed by Mary, who indicated the double menace of Mrs. Ragland and Madame Lavelle approaching. "Oh…my…"

Mr. Holmes had also noticed what the matter was. Without further ado, he grasped my hand, kissing it hastily. "A thousand apologies Kitty, I very recalcitrantly neglected reserving a dance on your card. Would you nonetheless grant me the privilege of the first turn around the hall?" And not abiding my answer, he embraced me with one arm, lacing his right hand with my left, and swept me out on the floor, which left poor Mary at the elderly ladies' mercy, without means of escape. I laughed in spite of myself.

"That wasn't exactly gallant, Mr. 'olmes!"

"Oh, don't move yourself to tears", he sneered. "I have an idea that someone or other will soon release the damsel in distress."

For a minute I watched Mary who looked very lovely in her blue, puff-sleeved dress, and indeed it did not take Mr. Youghal any longer to materialize by her side and lead her off to dance. For the second time in one day, I had an uncomfortable feeling that the shy young man's regard for my friend was more profound than recommendable in the case of a married woman. However, I chose to say nothing yet and smiled at Mr. Holmes whose all-round proficiency for once did not unsettle me, for I prefer a good dancer to an amateurish one.

He looked down on me, and the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. "I perceive you are wearing the necklace I gave you."

"I treasure it very much", I assured him quickly. "And I thought it went quite well with this plum colour – which is of course perfectly unrelated to the fact that this colour looks best on me."

"Really. I prefer you in russet", he replied plainly, spinning me around the bend of the room.

"But…I don't 'ave a frock o' that colour", I returned with a frown.

"I am convinced that at the very least you used to have one. You wore it when first we met", he explained easily, as though we were not talking about an occasion two years in the past.

"You remember what I wore on our first encounter?"

"I only rarely forget details. My memory is not very…selective, on the whole. And speaking of the memory, this reminds me…"

The dance had come to an end, and Sherlock Holmes made me step aside with him, so that the other people could form up for the _Allemande_. It appeared that he wished to retrieve something from the depths of his jacket, and after some attempts, producing a measure tape, a lock pick and a magnifying glass, he succeeded.

"Ah! There it is." He presented me with a nosegay that was only slightly bruised. The buds were so tiny and delicate I had to see them in proper light to recognize they were Bleeding Hearts.

"Thank you so much!" I gave him a surprised look. "You remembered that!"

"But then, it was only today that we broached the subject of favourite flowers", he remarked calmly when I fixed the flowers to my gown.

"It was a very pretty idea." I took his hand in both of mine and lightly pressed it, but suddenly his smile became somewhat rigid, and I swiftly let it go again.

"Ahem." He gingerly withdrew his arm. "I was on the point of proposing a drink – do you think Mrs. Watson would care for some refreshment, too?"

"Yes", I confirmed avidly, for Mary was already having her second dance with Colonel Kincaid, "yes I suppose she could do wiv a break."

He left me and I watched the dancers, cavorting like so many butterflies, until the old girls discovered my availability and unscrupulously occupied me.

"Do you play whist?" Mrs. Ragland roared above the general rumpus, while Madame Lavelle loudly complained about Mary's refusal to be a part in her fitness projects. Luckily, Mary and the Colonel joined us just a little later. My friend was radiant. Her aquamarine earrings still dangled in the rhythm of the music.

"Wasn't that great fun, Colonel! We'll have to do the next round together, too! Oh, thank you Mr. Holmes", she added, for my husband had silently returned with our champagne goblets. While he was entangled in a conversation by the ladies, Mary took me aside.

"Kitty…" she glanced furtively around before she continued, her voice lowered, "….have you seen Mr. Youghal anywhere?"

"Not since you danced with him, no", I replied, surprised.

"Well, that's just the crux! While on the floor, he more or less confessed being in love with me. It was pretty embarrassing."

"Oh, no!" I exasperatedly hit my temple. "I was anticipating something of the sort. What did you do?"

"What do you think?" Mary was getting impatient. "Of course I told him there already was a man in my life, that I was very sorry and so on and so on. Later, I saw him moping about in the booth over there, watching the dance. But now it seems the earth swallowed him! Nobody's seen him!"

"Poor devil. Perhaps he's gone home?"

"I don't know…" she insecurely looked around. "I think I'll go and search him."

"Don't!" I warned her. "He might interpret it wrongly. You wanted to do one more dance with the Colonel, so go for it. And I just will…."

But when we turned around, we had to perceive that Mr. Youghal was not the only man that had gone missing. Much as I would ask people and look out on the dance floor, no trace of Holmes was to be found.

oooOOOooo

I discovered his whereabouts by good chance only. Almost suffocating with the oppressive heat that invariably builds up in a crowd, the alcohol rising to my head; I had gone to stand by the down folded windows to breathe some fresh air. As I did so, I observed the lone glow of a cigarette in the darkness out there. Nobody really seemed to take notice of me momentarily, so I opened the window and stepped over the high threshold, out on the porch. Beyond it, the white beach could be seen gleaming, and the dark sea was rolling and stomping.

The gust had abated and had left the sky swept clear, so that every single star was to be distinguished. Calmly I closed the window and went over to where Mr. Holmes was leaning against the balustrade, dusting his serge waistcoat with cigarette ash.

"A smoke was overdue", I observed smilingly, standing next to him and placing one arm on the low wall.

"It was not exactly that which drove me out."

"Then you find it a dead bore." I felt my smile grow sad, a little.

He was silent for a moment and then he said: "Ah, I don't know Kitty. All I know for sure is that all these kind, amiable people are frightfully getting on my nerves. I was not made to endure noise, idle chatter and constriction. To be quite honest, I found the atmosphere in there quite depressing."

"I felt close to choking, too", I conceded hesitantly, "still I find it was all done rather nicely."

"Ha!" he uttered a strange little sound of disagreement.

"Didn't you think?"

"Kitty, oh Kitty. I would loathe spoiling the evening for you. If I were to describe my reception of it, it'd be depressing for you too. No, no, you go back in there and enjoy yourself, and I shall have another cigarette or two, and then walk to the hotel across the beach."

I looked up at him, but he did not actually seem depressed, in fact his eyes, reflecting the light of stars, were smiling at me.

"I wouldn't want to go in there again without you", I muttered. He inhaled deeply.

"Why not."

"Because I'd be all by myself", I explained. "Mary is busy with her gallery of admirers, and with nobody else to talk to, I'd end up feeling blue indeed. I'd…think too much about things."

"What things?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "It's just…" absentmindedly I patted my hair to ensure it covered the side of my neck.

He watched me expectantly and then snorted deridingly. "Oh please", he gibed, "you're not indulging in your inferiority complex again?"

He saw well that I was hurt, and with an impatient sigh stumped his cigarette on top of the wall. "Now really Kitty, you are letting yourself go. Pray what was in that room that reminded you of Baron Gruner, hm? Did the musicians play _Madamina_? Or did somebody suggest porcelain smashing?"

"You're laughing at me, Mr. 'olmes", I grumbled. "How'd _you_ feel being the only cripple in a room full o' pretty girls…."

He chuckled condescendingly. "You're childish. First of, I consider the term cripple a highly dramatic one in your case. And in the second place, I did not perceive as much beauty in there as to oblige you to feeling inferior."

"You didn't? I suppose you just didn't look. Only see that woman over there, the one by the window! Ain't she _georgeous_?"

I indicated a tall, blonde lady resplendent with diamonds and very white teeth. She was surrounded by several gentlemen who were all doing their best to amuse her. Holmes, however, only wrinkled his nose.

"Where you see beauty, I can only detect a haggard hermaphrodite, dyed hair and loads of paste jewelry, nevertheless worn with a pretence that did almost convince me she were really fool enough to parade genuine diamonds in such a crowd."

I first looked at the lady, suddenly beholding that her pretty face was heavily made up, and then insecurely at Holmes, who earnestly returned my gaze. "You ought to accept it, Kitty. Beauty is not perfection…far from it. Much rather than that, it is the flaw that brings about the charm - it's the tender spot that captivates."

Hardly were these words spoke when already he regretted them. He faltered, visibly afraid that I might get him wrong. I felt I had to say something humorous or it would get too awkward. "Oh, but Mr. Holmes! I know you are only saying that because you are aware that your nose is way too large and your ears are projecting!" I exclaimed, pretending that I was perfectly at my ease, and he feigned taking offence, though he was playacting just as I was. We were both aware of it, and were grateful to each other, for the uneasy moment had passed away.

"So…you are determined to leave, Mr. Holmes?" I asked when he had sufficiently complained about my cheek. "It is well, for I am also quite weary of dancing. I shall come back with you to the Bay View."

"As you please. But haven't you promised any dances to the gentlemen inside? Won't they be waiting for you?"

"Only to Colonel Kincaid, an' 'e will be fine dancing wiv Mary. Shall we?"

"Yes. If you so wish."

A path had been laid out that connected the porch with the beach, occasionally interrupted by steps and overhung by a large laburnum bush. Burning torches had been planted left and right of it, in case the guests might like to take a nightly stroll by the waterside, but all the same Mr. Holmes solicitously gave me his arm so that I would not slip.

"The height of these heels is idiotic", he calmly informed me. "And so is the cut of your dress. Wouldn't it be ironic if you returned from a health resort with rheumatism and pneumonia?"

"I ain't cold. Not a bit." We had taken the last set of stairs and had arrived on the beach. "But you 'ave a point – they're uncomfortable. Ouch!" I slipped out of my shoes and picked them up in one hand. The sand was still warm beneath my naked feet. I laughed quietly in wonder and he quizzed me with a glance. "'tis nothing."

We walked silently side by side. The heavy silk of my dress was trailing on the sand, and there was a funny tickling sensation in my feet. I felt so curiously serene. The black sea was coming in and withdrawing alternatingly. The golden glint from the Royal Pavillon disappeared from sight as we went further and further away, but the stars were there always and poured their silver light down on everything.

Though we didn't say a word, my thoughts were constantly with the man that walked beside me, arms folded on his back, face turned up at the sky ponderously, and I felt so light, so light, so I-knew-not-what. All too quickly did new golden lights appear ahead of us: The Bay View Hotel. We rounded the cove, arrived at my and Mary's customary bathing place, and only a short stair separated us from the house and the garden. It was too narrow to be climbed simultaneously, so both of us halted and we hesitantly regarded each other. I laughed unconfidently.

"Strange, ain't it? That beach's so full with people by day, an' now it's so still and deserted. I wonder whether people will already be asleep up in the house?"

"Almost everyone will be at the ball", he said slowly.

"Oh." I swallowed hard. Oh indeed.

He held my gaze for one second longer, but then broke it with a jerk of his head. "I think I'll turn in. Do you wish to remain? Well, don't stay too long. You really might catch a cold, you know."

"Are ya very tired?"

"I mean to rise early tomorrow. Wouldn't dream of disappointing the sportive Madame", he said facetiously. "Good night, Kitty."

"Good night", I breathed. "And – thank you for the bouquet."

He had already begun to mount the stairs, but turned around one more time to wave his hand at me. In the gloom, I could only see him due to his bright suit.

"Thank you for the evening! It was not completely devoid of enjoyment, after all." And having uttered these words, he irrevocably vanished.

I spun round to face the sea. The curious light-headed feeling had become stronger suddenly…it was overwhelming, making my breath go irregular, making my heart pound in my chest. The scales had fallen from my eyes suddenly, though still it seemed incredible to me. I - Kitty Winter – Kitty Holmes – was in – in – love!"

**Ouf, at laaast! Okay this hurdle's been cleared, thankfully. But what about Holmes? Do you think he might feel the same way? Yeah, no, perhaps? After all, only requited love will prosper…**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter thirty-seven: Moving Pictures

31st July 1887

"_Has love in earnest never stirred your breast?/ _

_With women one should never dare to jest." Goethe's Faust_

It was insane. Insane, insane! He was nothing like my former lovers. Our union was a mere partnership of convenience. We had nothing, absolutely nothing in common! And still, when I recalled the events of the evening, I longed to belie all these considerations.

_How he looked at me!_

_He was probably figuring out some smudge on your cheek, silly._

_But he went out of his way to please me! He brought my favourite flowers!_

_Poppycock. He was just trying to be nice._

_What does it even matter? I love him! I love him!_

Why had I not realized it before? All these last days, whenever he had been absent, I had missed his quiet, unobtrusive company. I felt, at this moment, that I would gladly trade all those lazy afternoons with Mary for another such walk with him. However did that happen?

I knew I had always liked him; that was not the question. I also had to admit to myself that I had desired him physically for some time now. But up to this point, the thought of love had never taken shape in my mind. And – oh dear! It was no lucky thing, perhaps. The object of my love was married to me, so technically there was no problem. Practically, however, I only knew too well how he felt about the softer passions. He took care not to let me forget this for one moment.

I stooped and grabbed a fistful of sand, letting it run through my fingers pensively. It was the amount of time I spent with him. Yes, it surely was. Without that, none of this confusion would ever have come to pass. Time had got me closer to him. It had done nothing, however, in getting him closer to me. And I had tried, had I not, to approach him more personally.

With a deep sigh, I tossed away the rest of the sand and slowly ascended the stairs to the garden. There were too many obstacles. Better try and forget about it. But even as I went up to the house and saw light being turned up in Holmes' room, the occupant himself briefly passing the open balcony door, I knew deep inside that any attempt to ignore what I felt so distinctly would be doomed to futility.

oooOOOooo

1st August 1887

"Kitty! Hello-o! Sleeping again?"

I blinked and turned my head so that it came to rest on the other cheek, proving Mary's accusation unjustified. "Whatsamatter?"

We were lying on two parallel benches on my balcony, only dressed in our bathing bottoms, so that the Swedish masseuses had access to our tense backs. Mary restively shifted on her stomach like a stranded fish. "You _are_ quite a bore today. And you have no right to be! _You _did not stay up till dawn, dancing your feet sore!"

"No." I smiled in an attempt at apology for my absent-mindedness. "But I'm glad you 'ad yer fun."

"I certainly did! Lucky you that I wasn't too tipsy to have your things fetched for you before I departed. Did you really walk back all the way in _those_ shoes?"

"I took them off. Mr. 'olmes an' I walked along the beach…" I ceased, glancing over at Mary, who appeared to expect hearing something more. Could I dare to…?

"Baah!" She suddenly yawned, idly tugging on her earlobe. "You know what Kitty, I think it's about time I returned to London. I'm getting quite weary of this place. And then, there's John to consider…"

"But I thought you find it so amusing down 'ere?"

"So it is – too amusing. People start to unnerve me. I mean, can you imagine what it's like having Mrs. Ragland and Colonel Kincaid as next-doors? And then there's that ghastly woman Lavelle…and that unpleasantness over Mr. Youghal…"

"Oh!" I pricked up my ears. "Had 'e gone 'ome after all, yesterday?"

"He had not. I detected him, quite blatantly staring at me, when the Colonel and I were back on the floor. To think that tonight, I'll have to face him again…! You know. Whist in Mrs. Ragland's suite", she reminded me.

"Yes, well – I'm sorry I can't be there to support you as I meant to. There's tha' garden party invitation…"

"Quite right. I guess you have drawn the more desirable lot", Mary sighed. "Oh dear, I'm really looking forward to being in town again. Parties in abundance sometimes further ennui rather than fighting it."

I propped myself up on my elbow as the masseuse started to assiduously work on the small of my back. "An' what's there to do in London, pray? Apart from pampering yer hubby, that is?"

"I'm up to plenty of things. First of I'll have to survey the restoration works of the building we are having lessons in. We do have sufficient funds, but are short of helping hands. Then a substitute has to be found for our language teacher, who's going to have a baby, for we mean to resume courses by the beginning of September. I'd fill in myself, but…"

Suddenly she looked at me, and her blue eyes began to sparkle. "Kitty – that is _the_ idea! I mean you told me you were looking for a commitment, so why not let me fill in the vacancy, and you take charge of the things I normally do?"

"I dunno", I drawled, my uncertainty clearly seeping through. "I ain't sure I can do that…"

"What is there to do but teach some stupid girls how to sew and stitch? You are the most accomplished person with a needle I've ever seen. No, I'm serious. There's also music to consider, but I can find someone else for that. Oh please say yes, Kitty! Whatever's the problem with the way you talk? You're not supposed to teach grammar lessons. And why should you have experience in advance? It's not a paid service, so nobody will expect anything of you. Experience will come in time. Why are you wavering, Kitty? Why do you keep shaking your head?"

She cocked her own head to the side and regarded me sharply. "Are you afraid Mr. Holmes might refuse giving his permission?"

"Refuse his permission?" I laughed bitterly. "He'll consider it the best joke in years!"

Mary narrowed her eyes and hissed like an angry cat. "Stupid men! John was the same way when first I started this, only less blatant. Well, I taught him to belittle me! Nowadays you'll hear nothing but praise from his mouth."

"I can imagine." I chuckled quietly. "Alright then, I'll do't. But on one condition only!"

She raised her brows. "Namely which?"

"You must admit my little niece, Fanny. I'm afraid if I leave her education to my sister entirely, she'll end up a perfect brute."

"Done!" Mary extended her arm to halfway bridge the interspace between her and me, and with some straining and stretching, I managed to shake on it.

oooOOOooo

Mary broached the subject that same evening already. We were at dinner, seated in the hotel hall among other guests, when quite bluntly she declared: "There's news for you, Mr. Holmes. Your wife decided today to enter the world of professional life."

He gave her an extremely confused look, and she elaborated: "As you know, I am looking for someone to take on the job of a teacher in the Street Girl's Mission. I think Kitty will be perfect for it, and she kindly agreed to accommodate me with her services."

Holmes had just wanted to raise his wine glass to his lips, but set it back with a derisive snort. "My dear Mrs. Watson, I think you must have lost your head. Did you just describe Kitty as perfectly suited to teaching in a school? Why, the girl can hardly spell her own name!"

"Now that is a crass exaggeration, Mr. 'olmes!" I vapoured, in my indignation neglecting to call him by his first name as I usually did in Mary's presence.

Mary gave me a sign to be silent, and calmly continued: "The question is about communicating the basics of needlework. Surely you won't find this overcharges Kitty's abilities?"

"Why – perhaps not – but still – this is preposterous", he stammered. "Do what you will, but don't blame me if she loses her temper and starts smashing your equipment!"

Mary, smiling smugly, placed her chin on her enlaced hands. "Mr. Holmes, is it possible you are just the tiniest bit anxious one of the male teachers might carry her off?"

"Ridiculous", he huffed. "Nobody'd dream of doing such a thing. I mean to say, not that Kitty weren't as agreeable as any other, of course, but there's that _married woman look_ virtually stamped on her. Oh, it is not a safeguard against the pursuit of admirers in the case of _every_ wife, to be sure", he told her maliciously, but Mary was not to be discomfited.

Perfectly at her ease, she sipped on her marsala, suddenly fixing her eyes on some point at the far end of the room. Straightening on her chair and lightly raising a greeting hand, she exclaimed: "Lord Cantlemere! Hello!"

Holmes spun round in his seat, with a speed that would have seemed quite mortifying, had it not been for Mary's sudden outburst of hearty laughter which finally infected us both.

oooOOOooo

We parted at half past eight. Mary saw us on our way before joining her party in the drawing room, and so Mr. Holmes and I surprisingly reached our destination on time. It was a modest house quite out of town, neither great nor small, but situated within a vast garden. The tall trees, already darkening after sunset, were lit with some hundred Chinese lampions, distributed in the branches. Between two of the trees, a broad thin screen was stretched with a curious apparatus set up in some distance from it, an unwieldy box with a crank handle and a round lens.

Our hostess, Mrs. Helena Friese-Greene, received us gracefully, but her husband, a restless mind covered by a large fluffy tuft of hair, only got to shaking our hands quite some while later.

"Why'd ye think 'e's so nervous?" I asked Mr. Holmes when Mr. Friese-William had scuttled away distraught. "There ain't no need, at least not because o' us. 'e don't even _know_ us. An' I talked to an acquaintance, the lady o'er there, an' she don't know 'im personally, either."

"I expect he just wishes his invention to be a success. See whether it is attractive to the audience. Did you ever attend the public broadcast of photographs?"

"S'ppose I did. Yeah, once they had a slide show with pictures of a farm in Rhodesia at the music hall. It was real stunning."

"Then you ought to be interested in this, I wager. But I can't exactly tell what awaits us. For further information, I suggest you seek our Mr. Vance", and he indicated the heavily bearded gentleman that had appeared by the technical apparatus and now started to reel up a lissome silvery-black band on a spool.

"Good evening, sir." I warily approached, placing my hands on the box tentatively.

"Good evening, good evening", the optician replied busily, never so much as looking up from his occupation.

"Pray, what is this contraption?" I wanted to know, moving around to inspect every inch of it. "Is it a _camera obscura_, like the one at yer 'ouse? Or something different?"

"Quite different, madam. Ah, Mr. Holmes!" For the detective had stepped up behind me in his usual, noiseless fashion.

"Good evening, Mr. Vance. I perceive the work of technic is ready to unwind its miracles in front of our eyes?"

"Yes, yes, I think everything ought to work. The projector is in place, the tape, the lens…"

"Kitty", Holmes said, and I felt my hand, about to finger the lens protruding from the box, being gently withdrawn. "Pray do not touch it. You might leave marks on the glass."

"Yes – yes", I stuttered, dropping my hands as quick as gravitation would permit. In every one of the five spots where his fingertips had brushed the back of my hand, the skin seemed to be scorched, burning red hot. I felt incredibly stupid and clumsy, and for one instant thought Mr. Holmes justified in supposing that I was too inept even to hold a needle in my hand. "Um – what does the box do, then, other than projectin' photographs?" I enquired quickly, just to override my confusion.

"You're going to see in the course of the evening, my dear lady, so exercise yourself in patience." Mr. Vance stooped over his dubious gadget again, and I realized Holmes had already walked on, strolling deeper into the dusky garden.

I interchanged some words with our hostess, and a family I knew from the beach, but my attention would not really focus on them. Instead, I felt my mind wonder inexorably to the spot in the gloom which was typically indicated by the glow of the cigarette. When Mrs. Friese-Greene announced it was dark enough now for the showing to start in short time, I finally had a pretext under which to go after him.

The glow had extinguished, but the irritated rattling of the empty cigarette case on a on a stony table top lead my way. I found the excessive smoker in an arbour a little offside, stuffing his pipe for which the tobacco had not run out as yet. Sitting down a little apart from him, and folding my hands in my lap, I waited for him to consummate the ceremony he held so dear. He did not let himself be disturbed, and only after the critical first draught observed casually:

"Well well Kitty. I perceive you have been dispatched to inform me of the present beginning of the presentation. Keen as my interest is in all matters technical, I would prefer to finish my pipe quietly, so you are well advised to refrain from pushing me. We can walk back slowly, and you can tell me how you occupied your little self all day as I smoke."

"Why are ya always talking ter me like that", I returned plaintively, following him as he stepped out of the arbour and steered his pace back at the assembly in front of the screen. "You're makin' me feel more obtuse than I actually am. Perhaps yer undertakings are more significant and demanding than I can measure, but that don't mean I can do nothing at all!"

He gave himself a very surprised air. "I never thought there weren't things you could do Kitty! Ah – you are talking about what I said this evening at dinner, aren't you? "

I nodded mutely and he groaned, his tolerance wearing thin. "How often do I have to repeat it? I sometimes let myself be carried away in a debate, and say things I do not mean exactly. Your experience of such utterances is extensive, so stop taking it to heart."

"It is easily said", I complained. "Why did you insult me so, in front of Mary, too? It is hurtful to hear such things being said about oneself."

He halted and made a sweeping movement with his arm, as if to take everything back. "I very sincerely regret any unpleasantness I may have caused you. Believe me, it was not directed at your person, but rather intended to silence Mrs. Watson. Much as I appreciate her good nature, she can be damned cocksure sometimes. That joke at my expense was certainly not in the best of taste."

"Well, I couldn't guess whom you were trying to argue, could I?" I reciprocated with some asperity, angry that he could dish out so much and take so little. "It was most recalcitrant, most regardless and most insensitive on your part, I find."

He tilted his head with a crooked smile. "Am I pardoned, nevertheless?"

And my heart melted in torrents. It seemed inconceivable how a mean, cynical man of six feet two should have retained so much of the little boy's charm, but there we were, in the darkness, and I was enchanted because he had asked my pardon for his indolence. Cold he was, cold! Probably he even knew the effect his lop-sided smile had on me, the shadows his lashes cast on the hollow cheeks; he enwrapped me in his beautiful brunette snare, and left me weak-legged, melted, insubstantial, dissolved.

Moved by fear and craving, I watched him, fear for the frail tiny moment to end, craving for it to continue. His impassive smile stirred up a thousand questions that coursed my brain. Had this heart ever loved, had these lips ever kissed? If so, what would it be like to be loved, to be kissed by him? _Could_ he love? Had he a heart? Had he? Had he?

Too late did I realize that while my thoughts and feelings had dwelled on the moment, his had long moved on, unwitting of what was going on inside of me, he had turned away and taken position at the margin of the group, just close enough to have the screen in view. Beside myself with unwarranted emotion, I went to stand beside him, to be the woman by his side, if not in private, then at least in public.

Mr. Vance's fumbling seemed to finally have an effect, for white light started to flicker across the screen, and when I turned around to see the projector, it cast its beams so bright that I had to avert my eyes.

"Ladies and gentlemen", Mr. Friese-Greene was to be heard from somewhere near the apparatus, "I am proud to present this fruit of my research, the very first motion picture not to be interrupted by blackouts and overexposure. It took me, my wife and my honoured colleagues five years to extrivate the chemicals necessary therefore, and to develop the film in such a way as to make it presentable as it has been recorded – in one sequence. I ask you for your utmost attention!"

I had been searching the surroundings for the speaker with my eyes, but had to give up when again, the light began to hurt them. Instead, I turned back to have a look at the screen, and issued a shrill cry of surprise. But it was not the only one.

**Oh well, the first movies **_**were**_** quite funny in all their absurdity. I recently watched "The voyage to the moon" in a technics museum, it was hilarious! Basically only gesticulating men in front of changing backgrounds. **

**But oh-oh! I think a time of suffering has dawned on Kitty. Perhaps she had better confided in the resourceful Mary? But what could even that have effected? Lord Cantlemere can't always come walking in conveniently!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter thirty-eight: Under a cloud

1st August 1887

"_Seize me not thus so violently!/_

_What have I done to you? Oh, pity me!" Goethe's Faust_

It is now some weeks that I have stood in that gloomy garden some leagues out of Brighton, spookily illuminated by artificial light, and still I lack the words to describe what was happening, though I still see everything clear as printed in my mind.

The screen was alive! I mean to say – the pictures were not only there, they merged, they were flowing into one another, they were _moving_! Though not a sound was to be heard, apart from the astounded shrieks in the audience, the people in the picture were walking and talking, as if real, but not quite. I did not know what to make of that. Not in my most audacious dreams I could have imagined such a thing. It was immensely frightening, and at the same time, wondrous. I held my breath until I noticed Mr. Holmes angrily shaking his arm.

"Will you let go off me!"

Hardly had I realized that in my stupor, I had dug my nails into his forearm, probably quite painfully. But though he pretended to be unaffected by the strange sight we beheld, I could sense his profound awe. It was possible he had heard about the technique that could produce such a miraculous illusion, but it was apparent he had never actually witnessed it.

"Quite impressive, isn't it?" he observed coldly, as the light was extinguished and the people started to chatter excitedly. The whole showing had not exceeded five minutes, but the effect it had left, I was sure of that, was one to last for years.

"Incredible!" I joined the other guests in applauding the host, who saw his person surrounded by admirers and bombarded with questions. "But what exactly was it they did, Mr. 'olmes?"

"Ah, I cannot tell. I have very little knowledge about this particular line of research. I assume though, what happened was more or less the same as the spinning of that wheel you admired at Mr. Vance's place. Its equivalent here, I suppose, would be that spool you perceive on top of the technical apparatus…"

I wanted to force myself on the optician and examine the mysterious machine again, but it had long been besieged, and it was hopeless to reach it.

oooOOOooo

Mr. Friese-Greene repeated the show for his enthusiastic audience that evening. And again. And again. Five times had we viewed the silent grey ladies and gentlemen in the black and white park landscape, and still I was not weary of it, when Mr. Holmes, run out of patience, dragged me away from the party. Having seen what he had come to see, the place held no more interest for him.

We returned to the hotel, I talking incessantly in my excitement, and he interjecting a gruffly remark now and then. On our arrival, the first thing I wanted to do was to go and seek Mary to tell her about our unique experience, but Holmes categorically forbade me to disturb her evening entertainment.

Instead, he sent me to my room. We were both accustomed to sleep early, but this evening I was too fidgety to get any rest. Thus, I was still lying wide awake when, around midnight, I heard a distant commotion in the house. At first I dismissed it as meaningless, but when it would not abate and grew even louder, I irresolutely sat up in my bed. Should I go and see what the matter was?

Before I could make a decision, there were noisome, hasty steps outside, and a sharp rap at my door. "Kitty! Oh please Kitty, are you awake?"

It was no doubt Mary's voice, but it sounded strangely altered. There was an unwonted urgency to it, an urgency I would almost associate with – desperation? Slowly I rose from my bed and slipped on my dressing gown. Mary was still hammering the door when I opened it, and in the light of the corridor, I was surprised to see tears streaming down her face.

"Good heavens! What 'appened?"

"Oh!" She laughed with relief, though tears continued to tumble over her cheeks. "Thank God you're in. Is Mr. Holmes with you?"

"Why – no!" I replied, more bemused than embarrassed.

"He didn't answer to my knocking; he's too fast asleep probably. Pray wake him up Kitty! Tell him I need him – downstairs. It is urgent!"

And with a hasty sniff, she turned on her heel and rushed down the hallway. Now that I had gathered together my five senses, I became aware that it was full of people in spite of the late hour, people coming up the stairs and passing me by, loudly calling things at one another. I could snatch the name of Mrs. Ragland.

Drawing my gown closer around me, I stepped over to the neighbouring door, knocking it hesitantly. There was a little rumbling inside the room before its inhabitant opened, with mussed hair and wearing dove-grey pyjamas.

"Kitty? Is that you?" he was blinking against the bright light as blind as a bat.

"Yes, Mr. 'olmes."

"What do you want", he sighed, languidly sinking against the door frame and passing a hand though his muddled hair.

"Something terrible must 'ave 'appened. Mary woke me up cryin', and there is a fearful rabblement in the 'ouse. People are running up an' down the corridor…."

"Are they, now? I had _no_ idea." He paused and made a visible effort at civility, straightening and with a forcefully calm voice asking: "What has she been saying to you?"

"As I said, she was very upset. More upset than I have ever known her ter be, I might add. She told me to bring ya down the apples, an' then she disappeared thither."

"Hum. Then, alas, I think I shall have to follow her beck", he said regretfully. "It is a pity, for I was dreaming of the stupid face Lestrade usually has on display when I present him with the conclusion of a case. It was a delicious vision. One moment, please!"

He vanished into his room and re-emerged within the minute, clad in his dressing gown. I wanted to melt away when he passed me by so closely. He smelled good…much better than had ever been clear to me. I had a dim conception he seemed to smell of tobacco as a rule, but probably I had ceased associating this scent with cigarettes. In a daze I watched him tying the girdle around his narrow waist.

"Well then, let us see whether we cannot assist our pert friend in need through deeds or council. At the very least, I hope it was no trifle that retrieved me from my bed…"

oooOOOooo

He was not to be disappointed. In the drawing room on the ground floor, a Greek drama of sorts was taking place. Mary stood in the middle of the room, drowned in tears and surrounded by onlookers.

"I assure you, I didn't take it!" she averred. "I've never taken anything that wasn't mine! I – "

"Oh, stop sniveling; you're as good as convicted!" Mrs. Ragland boomed, pointing an accusing finger at my friend.

"No, no! I never did as much as touch it!"

Mrs. Ragland snorted angrily, and though I did not fully understand the situation, I realized that most of the people appeared to have taken her side. There was a whispering throughout the room, and distrustful glances aimed at Mary, who seemed to be utterly shaken. Behind the pre-eminent figure of Mrs. Ragland, I perceived our three mutual acquaintances, Madame Lavelle, Colonel Kincaid and Mr. Youghal, their faces all equally serious.

Well, perhaps not quite equally. There were certain nuances to be distinguished on their features, and they puzzled me. The elderly Frenchwoman gave the impression of – dare I say it – gratification. She did not seem the least bit surprised that Mary Watson should have gone wrong in any way. Colonel Kincaid exuded irresolution and scepticism, he measured my dear poor companion with searching eyes. By his side, Mr. Youghal was utterly smashed. Incredulity and horror merged in his bright eyes.

Mrs. Ragland had just commenced a mindless ranting tirade when my husband gravely stepped into the ring formed by the spectators.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" With a bloodcurdling sob, Mary fell into his arms. "Tell them I am innocent! Tell them I know nothing about it!"

"Oh, the sly thing!" Mrs. Ragland blustered. "You've done it now, so come and face the consequences!"

There was an approving murmur to be heard from the crowd. Holmes gently pushed the weeping woman aside and straightened his dressing gown. "Madam, I would very much like you to make your reason for complaint against Mrs. Watson known to me", he sternly told the spiteful accuser. "As she is here on her own, without her husband or anyone else to vouch for her, I feel it my responsibility to arrange matters to the best of her interest, so you'll understand I cannot allow any ungrounded accusations to be brought forth against her. Pray, what do you think you're rightfully charging her with?"

"What do I think I…" Mrs. Ragland repeated, apparently stunned by what she considered an exemplary piece of insolence. "This!" And she furiously indicated a string of very large, lustrous pearls lying on a couch table. "She tried to abstract this very valuable piece of jewelry from my room during our whist evening. I demand an immediate declaration of confession and repentance on her part!"

"But I didn't do it!" Mary repeated, stammering with exhaustion and shame at the public humiliation. "I never did it!"

I went over to lay my arm around her shoulders, producing a handkerchief with my free hand when again she started crying. I hushed her while Mr. Holmes inspected the necklace, his brows closely knit together. "But I don't understand…"

"The circumstances are very simple", Colonel Kincaid piped up, "hardly a case worthy of your attention, Mr. Holmes. It is painful of course to accept for the friends of Mrs. Watson – amongst whom, of course, I still count myself – " he bowed our way, "but still the burden of proof is bone-crushing."

"Oh, rubbish", Mr. Holmes rather impolitely waved him away. "I have known this woman to be perfectly indifferent when a treasure rightfully her own was reported to be lost forever. And _she_ being tempted by a pathetic string of pearls?"

He sounded so abrasive and convinced that nobody dared to contradict, though I could see Mrs. Ragland itched to tell him the temptation her pearls actually constituted in her opinion.

"You will have to lay the situation before me more completely", Holmes told her, "but not tonight. The pearls evidently have been restored to you, so no real harm has been done. My wife shall see Mrs. Watson to bed, and in the morning we all shall…"

"But she has to be taken in custody!" Madame Lavelle cried out in her shrill voice. "What were we to do if she disappeared during the night? We must have her arrested in a proper legal proceeding!"

"There will be no need for that", Holmes professed, restraining his urge to snap off everybody's head for the useless interruption of his sleep. "I told you I take all responsibility for Mrs. Watson on myself. And now I wish everybody a very pleasant night, or rather what's left of it. Kitty, would you…?"

"O' course", I said quietly, patting Mary on her back and giving her my last handkerchief. "Come, my dear…I shall bring you t'yer room…"

oooOOOooo

Mary was still weeping when we arrived there. I had never known she could be like this, so forlorn, so helpless. To me, she had always seemed a tower of strength.

"O'er 'ere, darling…put on tha' nighty…"

I towed her into her bed, and wanted to turn off the light when she caught me by the wrist, panic stricken. "Kitty – you do not think I took the pearls, do you?"

"Oh, no", I comforted her, dismayed that she should think that.

"I'm glad…you and Mr. Holmes are about the only people in this house to believe me."

"Because we know you, dearie", I said soothingly, sitting down on the edge of her bed and patting her hand. "But what exactly 'as 'appened? I can make neither 'ead nor tail o' it. Ever'body seemed so convinced…"

"Well – well, we were there, in Mrs. Ragland's suite – an' the talk came to what jewelry the ladies had been wearing for the Brighton Ball, and Mrs. Ragland said she had this marvelous string of pearls, but hadn't dared to wear it for fear of robbery…and then I asked whether we might not have a look, and so she took it out of a drawer and showed it to us."

"And afterwards?"

"And afterwards…I'm not sure I remember everything…somehow she returned it to the drawer, and we continued our game of whist in the adjacent room, and it was only two hours later that we realized it was gone!"

"I still ain't sure I un'erstand ya awright. Why did they think it was you who took them?"

"Oh, my…we launched a great search for it immediately…altered half the hotel…"

"Yes, so…?"

"So they were found amongst my personal things, is that not proof enough for them!" She pressed her hands against her small face, and tears welled out between the fingers. "Oh God, what an exposure! The scandal! The shame! And who is going to tell John? Dear, poor John!"

Pensively I nibbled on my finger. The whole story was unpleasant and inexplicable to me, too. But I could not help feeling that something was tremendously out of place.

"Who d'ye think had an opportunity to grab the necklace?"

"I don't know…all of us, I suppose. I told you they were in the adjacent room, and you have to cross that in order to leave the suite."

"Yes, but who _did_ leave it?"

"We all did at some point during the game. It was long and tiresome…nobody but Mrs. Ragland felt like playing. The Colonel went out twice to have a pipe, and Mr. Youghal went to order coffee, and Madame had forgotten her health-youth-and fitness pills in her room. As for myself, I once went to the bathroom."

"I see…." Rubbing my nose and squeezing my eyes shut, I reviewed the events as I imagined them according to what my friend had told me. And when I had finished thinking, I asked the question that I felt was vital. "Who found the pearls in the end, Mary?"

"I think that was Mr. Youghal. One hour had passed, and we had searched the entire suite, and all the rooms on the ground floor, mine and Colonel Kincaid's and whoever else there was. The wretched things had been stuffed into a shoe of mine…"

"Oh, had they…"

**Hey hey!**

**Some mystery at last, though facts are still somewhat confused. But one thing's for sure: Kitty and Holmes must get Mary out of that mess! Imagine that: The wife of dull, respectable Doctor Watson convicted of robbery! No, no, we can't have that.**

**I received some inquiries to that effect, so let me pronounce that explicitly: Holmes' sexual inclinations are nothing but the usual ones, disappointingly. He has reasons of his own why he usually doesn't act upon them. Nor has he been abused/ deceived/ cheated upon at any point. His behaviour in the correlative situations is just a manifestation of some more deep-rooted problem, and maybe just leads us astray from that a little. **

**Thank you for your interest/ questions all the same! It is gratifying to know your thoughts are dwelling on the story. **

**Bye for now!**

**Mrs.F**


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter thirty-nine: Partners in Crime

1st August 1887

"_Earth's little god retains his same old stamps and ways/_

_And is as singular as on the first of days." Goethe's Faust_

As a consequence to all the excitement, I overslept a little on that day, and was woken only by the knock of the maid, who desired to do the housekeeping work. She offered to return later, but I let her prevail, being awake now as I was, and slipped into some clothes behind the room divider.

Afterwards, I stepped out on the balcony. The wind came blowing in from the sea fresh and cool, it got caught in my hair and gave me a little chill, for I was standing in the shade of the projecting gable. The beach, however, looked snug and inviting, warmed by the sun like a sparkling white egg is by the wings of the mother bird. Already shadows were retreating to the house and its nooks, surrendering the harbor and the quay to the invasion of sunshine. And there, among the spruce, gaily painted little boats I could distinguish an erect familiar figure, distraught, yet never colliding with one of the passers-by, though there were plenty of them.

I returned to my room to complete my apparel, and then hurried down the stairs and out of the house, aiming at the landing stage. "Mr. 'olmes!"

"Ah!" From old custom, he feigned surprise at the encounter (he probably found it convenient to his dramatic persona), though he must long have seen me as I had made my way across the quay. "Good morning, Kitty, or should I rather wish you a pleasant afternoon? And how is our dear, unfortunate friend faring today?"

"Ouh – I dunno", I had to confess, ashamed that the mere sight of him should have made me forget Mary's misery. "I admit I hain't gonna see 'er yet. But she was much disturbed yesterday, and would 'ardly say two coherent sentences at once. Worse still, I am jus' as much at a loss as she is."

"It is a rather puzzling affair", he concurred, "given the quite striking absence of a motive for the theft. With all the people involved very comfortably situated in life…"

"So they seem", I said guardedly.

"So they _are_, Kitty. I took the liberty this morning of visiting the local credit institute and inspected our friend's balances."

"And the result?" I prompted him, embarrassed when I considered how my own morning had been spent for the most part.

"As I said – all remarkably well off. Mr. Youghal enjoys the monthly allowances of a wealthy aunt, Colonel Kincaid recently inherited a considerable fortune and Madame Lavelle runs her own prosperous business. As for Mrs. Ragland, she could afford her very whist cards to be made out of gold and silver, and she could lose a string of pearls each week without greatly feeling the loss."

"I thought as much." Gloomily I chewed my lower lip. "So Mary 'as been – "

"She has been ousted, yes. We are justified in the supposition that the necklace was deliberately placed among her personal effects. But for what reason?"

I felt myself pale a little under my moderate tan. "There is on'y one motive I could think of…" And in short words, I told him what had happened between Mary and Mr. Youghal on the evening at the Royal Pavillon. Holmes listened attentively, striding the pier relentlessly as he did and tapping his index against his upper lip.

"Quite plausible", he observed when I had ended. "A bitter revenge in exchange for the humiliation of rejection is not so very out of this world. In fact, this recalls to me the story of the Babylonian deity Ishtar who was rejected by a mortal man. What do the ancient writers say? ….and Ishtar's love turned to hate."

"I've ne'er 'eard o' the story", I confessed, and he graced me with a forbearing smile.

"Of course not. Anyhow, we should keep an eye on that man Youghal. If he hid the pearls in Mrs. Watson's room – "

"In a shoe, she said", I informed him. "But, oh Mr. 'olmes, I would loathe to think evil o' that poor young man. What if we do him wrong by makin' up theories? In my opinion, Madame Lavelle would maike a far more likely candidate. It is no secret that there is a great antagonism 'tween 'er an' Mary. Because you see, the other day…" And again I claimed his attention for the occurrence with the libel Mary had written to John and which she thought Madame Lavelle might have read. "Whatcha think, Mr. 'olmes?" I said a little more enthusiastically. "Does that not sound much more credible to you than poor Mr. Youghal trying to harm Mary?"

He shook his head in disapproval. "Dear, dear. I very nearly would have declared you a gifted detective aspirant five minutes ago. Still, Kitty, mark that detachment from passions and personal sympathies is an absolutely crucial trait in a successful investigator. If ever you should envisage getting somewhere in that domain – which you don't, naturally – then the first thing you'd have to learn would be regarding your suspects and clients with perfect equanimity, as mere factors, so to say."

"Is that really so?" I was tolerably dismayed, but he only chuckled.

"It is, assuredly. Where do you think I'd be if I had been taken in by every man's flattery, every woman's smile?"

Elsewhere? I hazarded in my mind, and pain surged up inside me when I recalled the sole reason why he was here with me was his incapability to form normal attachments. "Well – but ya 'ave ter admit that Madame wouldn't be too sorry to see something o' the kind 'appen ter Mary", I insisted.

"Pshaw! Speculations. We ought not to omit Colonel Kincaid, neither. My investigations have shown that he is a participator of a certain well-known jewelry sale."

"The Colonel? Never!" I dismissed the idea with mad laughter. "'e don't e'en know what evil thoughts are. An' 'e's a friend o' Mary's, despite all 'e declared tha' publicly yesterday an' it made me think very 'ighly of 'im!"

"Did it?" His mere tone informed me that he was not taking my protests seriously. "Perhaps you were supposed to feel this way? The Colonel, despite all his foolish airs, remains a man with a sharp intellect."

"Oh, nonsense!" I vividly shook my head. "Depend upon it, neither o' the men took it. Either Madame Lavelle did, out of spite probably, or our whole theory is faulty an' needs revision. Consider! Somebody exits the suite after 'aving ta'en the pearls, an' 'e don't find a suitable hiding place fer it in the hurry, so 'e conceals it among Mary's things, Mary's room being the next one to Mrs. Ragland's suite…"

"No, that would hardly work Kitty. Remember they all have their rooms on the ground floor – what'd be easier than slip into one's own room and find a safe place there?"

"Not all o' them do – Mr. Youghal ain't a guest o' the hotel, but resides in town. You ought to 'ave mixed more wiv the people, then you'd 'ave yer brass awright", I mocked him. "Besides, perhaps 'e or she simply panicked, and, afraid o' being found out, deposed o' the stolen item at a place that wouldn't be associated wiv 'im or 'er."

He had long ceased listening to me, I realized. Hitting the pavement with his cane, he wondered aloud: "_Why _for God's sake did she not lock her room? Why did she leave it open for everybody to walk in at leisure?"

"I suggest you ask her yourself."

He stopped at the water edge and with the tip of his shoe kicked a pebble over it. "I will discuss this and other questions with Mrs. Watson presently. Meanwhile, we must not forget Mrs. Ragland herself. I am far from convinced that we can safely exempt her from the list of suspects. Her demeanour towards our friend seemed not far from hostile last night, and if I understand you correctly, it was she who brought up the question of jewelry in the first place."

"Yes!" I looked up at him in surprise. "I had not thought of that."

"Quite right, too", he agreed incoherently. "I sincerely hope you'll never start to think, it'd be much too stressful for me. Now, if you'll excuse me? I think I ought to have an interview with the accused party…"

oooOOOooo

I did not see Holmes again before noontime. Strolling along the beach, I watched children play in the sand and bathe in the shallow waves. Our conversation had not made the matter any clearer to me. If someone had intended to steal the necklace for his or her own use, what could be the motivation, since all our suspects appeared to be so wealthy?

A speculation gone wrong? A desperate friend perhaps, a blackmailer or a dependent relation, who wanted the money instantly? But this was hardly thinkable. No, the reason had to be Mary herself. But who had so viciously wished to do her this disservice? And how had he or she known that her room would be unlocked, open to any intruder?

During my musings, I had left the beach behind, ascended the steep gardens and was just crossing the shady lobby when suddenly the receptionist called me back. "Mrs. Holmes?"

"Yes?" I turned around, astonished to see he was extending an envelope to me. "A letter, madam. Adressed to your husband."

"Thank you…" I very precisely examined the envelope. There was no sender, but the handwriting was a man's, and seemed vaguely familiar. Slipping it into my handbag, I set out to search Holmes, and found him on the portico. He gazed out at the sea with his shrewd, grey eyes, only partly aware that I had come to join him.

"Mr. 'olmes?"

"Ah…thank you…" His thoughts far away evidently, he received the letter from me and stuffed it into the deep pockets of his tweed jacket.

"Any news from Mary?" I enquired lightly, though I was most curious to learn any fresh developments.

"Noting really helpful, I fear. Only the queer fact that nobody intruded into her room, actually. The pearls had been hidden in one of the shoes in front of her door. They had been returned there after cleaning."

"Really?" I frowned. "That again looks as if a desperate thief 'ad required a quick, handy hiding place, don't it?"

He shrugged. "It is possible…"

I was at a loss what to say to retrieve him from his mental absence, and ventured: "Wouldn't ya like ter read yer letter, Mr. 'olmes? It looked so urgent."

He looked back from the sea, straight at me as if I had woken him from at least a hundred years of sleep. "Not now, no. The reading of epistles from Scotland Yard usually can be postponed with a good conscience. Instead, I thought…how about lunch?"

"Yeah, why not", I replied, almost disappointed in the worldliness of his thoughts when he had appeared so dreamy.

We took our seats under the awning. The sun was now at its highest point, and I felt my skin strain and itch again although I had taken the most scrupulous care to avoid direct daylight. Holmes ordered our meal – without my noticing how this could have happened, he had adopted the irritating habit of ordering for both of us – and I spent some time checking my face in a pocket mirror, reluctant of late to meet his direct gaze at a longer duration.

"It is strange", he suddenly remarked serenely, "how such a commonplace little theft is apt to elate my spirits. Here we are, in the middle of an intellectual vacuum, and I was just on the point of getting bored, and there the crime is, presenting itself conveniently. I am quite ashamed to admit that Mrs. Watson's mishap is a very agreeable distraction to me."

"I'm sure that'd comfort her", I returned dryly. "What d'ye intend ter be yer next step, by the way? I would prefer the whole affair ter be cleared up as soon as possible."

"I'm sure. But to help further this aim, I'm afraid, you can do nothing but ponder the question who put those wretched pearls into that boot and why."

"I thought I weren't supposed ter think, Mr. 'olmes?" I said maliciously. "To my knowledge, it'd cause ya additional trouble if I applied my brain ter the question who – " I stumbled over my own words. "Boots, Mr. 'olmes? Did ya say them shoes were boots?"

"I always prided myself on the clarity of my enunciation, whereas your pidgin occasionally is more than I could penetrate. If I say boots, you may rely upon it they _were_ boots - rubber boots, or so Mrs. Watson tells me."

"But – " my eyes opened wide, I stared at him. "But that'd mean our whole theory is false! Nobody wanted ter incriminate Mary. He stole the pearls, stepped into the corridor fer a minute, an' hid them in what he took fer 'is own boots in front of what 'e took fer 'is own door!"

"Oh, how I wish you'd stop talking in riddles!" Mr. Holmes groaned, but I did not pay any attention to his irritation.

"Don't you understand!" I eagerly bent across the table, insistently fixing him with my eyes. "Mary is wearing Watson's rubber boats! Men's boots, Mr. 'olmes! Someone mistook them fer 'is own, an' that person must be Mary's immediate next-door on the right!"

He looked a little more impressed, though he did his best to pretend he was not. "And who would that be?"

"Why – Colonel Kincaid!"

oooOOOooo

Mr. Holmes had managed to assemble Mary and her four acquaintances in Mrs. Ragland's drawing room by six o' clock. I curiously watched their faces, particularly the Colonel's, but no difference compared to the preceding night could be ascertained; not counting the fact that the hostess seemed to be pleasantly thrilled by the prospect of having a criminal investigation unfold practically beneath her eyes.

As regards Mary, I had had a lengthy conversation with her beforehand, and she was now relatively composed and serene in the expectation that Mr. Holmes would clear her name. The latter arrived some ten minutes behind the rest, bringing along a brawny police officer in uniform.

"But what's this business, Mr. Holmes?" Madame Lavelle shrieked when she perceived the guardian of law, and Mr. Youghal nervously shuffled his feet.

"If my memory fails me not, it was you who asked for the proceedings to take on a proper legal shape", Holmes told her smilingly, stepping over the threshold after the constable and taking off his hat. "But let us do everything in due order. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We have gathered here for the purpose of investigating the mysterious occurrence that had its origin in a congregation in this very room last night. I would ask each and every one of you to provide me with your most faithful cooperation, for this will demand a bit of a reconstruction. Ah, tea!"

For at this very instant, a housemaid entered with a wheel table and a tea tray on top of it.

"I allowed myself to repeat the very order you gave last night to the excellent kitchen staff, and I would like everyone to have a seat and help himself."

"Now really, Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Ragland clearly felt deceived by the profanity of the detective's methods. "Surely there are more important things to do at the moment than having tea. Would you not rather measure the length of everybody's feet? And search the carpet for prints with your magnifying glass?"

My husband's smiling face was a little crestfallen. "Another consumer of Dr. Watson's flamboyant writings?"

"Oh, but I have read his excellent accounts as well!" Colonel Kincaid piped up, making one or two dancing steps in his exultation, whereas Mr. Youghal pulled a bit of a featherbrained face. A tiny smile lit Mary's face in spite of her distress. Holmes, however, was clearly peeved.

"Lord have mercy on my poor soul! My dear Mrs. Ragland, I am bound to rob you of some of your illusions tonight. My methods occasionally _do_ deviate from the picturesque routine of", his eyebrows contracted as he smiled painfully, "measuring people's foot soles. I now request all of you to sit down around the table and have tea and crumpets, and I actually require your effort at having a chat with one another. And an effort it is going to be, for you'll have to do, and eat, and say the same things like on the night before, to the best of your ability."

A bewildered murmur arose. "I do not see why this should be necessary!" Mrs. Ragland complained. "When everything points so clearly to one direction!" And she gave Mary a dirty look, at which my poor friend's smile was extinguished instantly.

"Nothing is proven", Mr. Youghal suddenly told the elderly woman with an astoundingly firm voice, "and I forbid you to go on accusing Mrs. Watson in this manner. All things considered, there is nobody more to blame for the theft than yourself, you, who didn't even bother to lock your precious pearls!"

"I – " Mrs. Ragland blustered, "I won't tolerate your – "

"Gently, gently, Madam", Mr. Holmes admonished her, though his eyes sparkled with amusement. "We will, with your kind permission, proceed in our little experiment. If I might ask you to…"

People rose and started to occupy the round tea table. I noticed Mary shooting a quick, searching glance at my husband, who nodded reassuringly, before she went to assume her seat opposite to Mr. Youghal. Everyone, apart from Mr. Holmes, the constable and me, was now seated and the tea was poured out. The scenario struck me as a very artificial construct at first; they looked so stiff and awkward as they sat on their chairs, agonizing over what they had been saying the night before.

They improved, however, as the minutes ticked by, the discussion became more fluent, the faces more relaxed. Mrs. Ragland started talking about her pearls, and I waited, like the spectator of a very familiar play, for Mary's inevitable demand: "May we not have a look, please Mrs. Ragland?"

"Absolutely, my dear. Let me show them to you ere we depart for the card room."

"Now!" Mr. Holmes raised his index, briefly interrupting the scene. "As exactly as possible, please! And correct each other if you detect incongruities!"

Mrs. Ragland rose and unlocked a drawer in the cabinet beside the table, just opposite Mary. Taking out her pearls and handing them to my friend, she seemed to tremble slightly, as if afraid that her prize might disappear for a second time. One after the other, people craned their necks to have a glimpse of the string of pearls, or extended their hands to take it, issuing exclamations of admiration. Mrs. Ragland elaborated on its splendour as it went from hand to hand, and finally, when people's attention had long been restored to the tea things, took it back and returned it to the drawer.

Her guests continued to eat crumpets and talk about more or less nothing, until Mr. Holmes raised his hand. "Very well done indeed, thank you. That will do for now. You enabled me to tell you who of your party, briefly leaving under some pretext, abstracted those pearls from the drawer last night, and put them into Mrs. Watson's shoe outside in the corridor."

I could almost hear everybody hold their breath. Looking from face to face, I could read nervousness, tension and expectation. Mary was white as a bed sheet and seemed close to fainting. The suspense filled the room, like a graspable thing, perhaps like a thin veil, it lowered itself onto us. I could stand it no longer.

"Who was it, then?" I almost snapped at Mr. Holmes whose smiling complacency, absent in everybody else's face, nearly drove me to distraction. "Tell us! Tell us!"

"It was Mr. Youghal", Holmes calmly replied, and four persons issued a sigh of relief, before turning at the young man indignantly. There was, however, no need to urge his confession. Tears were running down his soft, babyish face, and all he could do was flounder.

"_You_ did that to me?" Mary exclaimed, dumbfounded. "But why the deuce? What have I ever done to deserve such treatment? Speak man, speak!"

But he could not. Dumbly he sat there, tears still welling out of his eyes, and he did nothing to defend himself against the man and women that were descending on him like so many furies.

Holmes watched them for a minute or so, and then snarled: "Silence!" with so icy a voice that all sound ceased and all motion came to a standstill. "I would like to have Mr. Youghal speak for himself, but considering his state, it is perhaps for me to set matter straight", he declared, eying the delinquent and his accusers with equal disgust.

"The motivation to this somewhat _outré_ act of vengeance, according to what knowledge I have of the affair, was briefly this: Having presumed Mrs. Mary Watson, the single traveler accompanied by her friends, to be a widow, Mr. Youghal was incautious enough to take a certain interest in the lady. As the rumour goes, he approached her with an accordant proposition on the night of the Brighton Ball, and received a rebuff, possibly not a very considerate one.

And what does our resented suitor do? He waits for the very first opportunity to get his offender into disgrace, and seizes it. He excuses himself to go and order some coffee – he passes the drawing room – tries the drawer with the pearls – finds it unlocked – takes out the pearls and hides them in one of Mrs. Watson's rubber boots that stand about in the corridor unguardedly."

"But – how could you know that, Mr. Holmes?" The Colonel asked, in his reverence even neglecting to call the detective _my darling boy_.

"Because the _clever_ Mr. Youghal this evening accused Mrs. Ragland of not having duly locked her treasure. Didn't you?" he addressed Mr. Youghal with retentive contempt. "But you put yourself in the wrong there! For you couldn't even _see_ whether she relocked them or not – you were sitting with your back to the drawer!"

"That is true!" Mrs. Ragland confirmed. "And he was busy pouring out tea, I recall that distinctly. Oh, you brute! How could you demean dear, dear Mrs. Watson in this fashion!"

Holmes smiled grimly. "One can only be demeaned in the eyes of those who let one be demeaned, Madam. Well, that is all settled and done with. Constable, I think you have sufficient grounds on which to arrest this man, as an arrest has been demanded by his companions…"

"Wait!" Mr. Youghal exclaimed. "Wait. I'd like to say something."

I was really sorry for him. The years seemed to fall off his young face by the minute, until nothing was left of him but a rueful small boy. Now he rose and went over to Mary, who watched him with mute resentment.

"Dear Mrs. Watson", he said quietly, but loud enough for everybody to hear. "Part of what this gentleman says is true. I have taken you for a single woman, and never before this very evening learned about the existence of a Dr. Watson. It is also true, as I have told you, that I have developed a profound attachment to you in the course of your stay at Brighton. Furthermore, it is correct that I envisaged a dreadful, despicable act of revenge. But I never meant to hurt you! I…I put the necklace into that boot because I thought it were Colonel Kincaid's!"

**A comedy of errors, in short…but what a poor little man! And to be despised by all the others! I assume only Kitty understands what it's like to be an unwanted lover. But what do his confused words mean, can you tell? And what has it got to do with the Colonel?**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter forty: Mistake

1st August 1887

„_Men errs as long as he doth strive." Goethe's Faust_

Mr. Youghal seemed incredibly unhappy as everybody's eyes pierced him with blank looks. Finally, the Colonel cautiously cleared his throat. "My dear young man, I must own I do not quite follow. Do you mean that by placing the pearls in that boot, you actually intended incriminating _me_?"

Miserably, Mr. Youghal nodded.

"How very extraordinary! Why ever should you do that, my boy? I trust I did nothing to inspire your grudge? Or did I?"

Mr. Youghal gave a deep sigh. "I am very, very sorry Colonel. But I must admit that during the preceding twenty-four hours, I have indeed hated you from the bottom of my soul."

"Oh!" The ladies gave vent to a sentiment of astonishment mixed with indignation. The Constable by the door chewed on his lead pencil, scrunching up his notepad with his right hand. As for the Colonel, he clearly was at a complete loss.

"I believe we must ask you to explain yourself more minutely", Holmes prompted the young man. His eyes had slightly narrowed with the keen intensity of his attention.

"It is quickly done, Mr. Holmes. The whole affair, as it turns out, was a complete misunderstanding." Mr. Youghal sadly scanned his circle of listeners. "You are already aware of the events at the Royal Pavillon, on the evening of the ball. Mr. Holmes portrayed them quite truly, apart from his supposition that Mrs. Watson had given me a mean rebuff. That was not the case.

On the contrary, she was most gracious and understanding, even though I didn't feel that at the time. _You must not dwell on these foolish inclinations, _she told me. _They are quite inappropriate, and, if you could only see it, do not really originate in your heart of hearts, for that our acquaintance is much too ephemeral. Above all, they could never be reciprocated, for there is a man already in my life._

I was crushed, as you can imagine, and angry, too. Yet although I left her instantly on the dance floor, I could not bring myself to leave the ball. Seized by a blind, injudicious jealousy, I continued observing her, and realized the frequency of her dances with Colonel Kincaid. They appeared to enjoy themselves very much and kept sharing laughter and pleasantries. And it was then that the misfortunate, idiotic fancy entered my head – that the Colonel was the man that had won favour where I had been spurned! Oh, what a fool I have made of myself!"

Desperately, he hit his face with his palm, but the Colonel gently retracted his hand. "You mustn't do that, Mr. Youghal. Your fault was the fault of error, and to err is human. Mind you – I am referring not to your misunderstanding about the boots, but to your decision to take those pearls and – you know."

"I am glad everything has come out now", his vis-à-vis confessed. "I – wouldn't have had the strength to set everything straight."

"Very regrettable", Holmes interjected lightly, though I sensed his continuing distaste. "I presume our good constable here would like now to accompany you to the door, where we have a cab waiting. You will then be good enough to repeat your statement at the police station."

At his words, our deplorable little wrongdoer blanched considerably, and when he rose to his feet, I feared for a moment that he would collapse. Full of compassion, I slipped to my husband's side and whispered insistently: "Pray don't do that, Mr. 'olmes! We all o' us maike mistakes…."

He ignored me, gesturing the officer to usher Mr. Youghal out of the room. Mary had also risen. Her fingers enlaced, she watched the retreating figures with concern. "What will happen to him?"

"Not much", Holmes replied in cold blood. "A petty crime and a wealthy aunt make a snug combination, don't you think? Excuse me."

And he went after the constable. Mary and I traded an insecure glance before again we joined the residual attendees, who had recovered their ability of speech and vividly discussed the occurrence by the tea table. If only one had known…one found it most disconcerting…this was indeed pretty steep…

oooOOOooo

Mary and I had been out for an extended walk, for we had a lot to talk about, and on our return, it was already time to get ready for dinner. Consequently, I stepped up to my room in order to do my hair.

Holmes' conduct this afternoon had made me a little angry, but my nerves were to be tried further still. As I sat there, unsuspecting; and passed the comb through my loose hair, he briskly and without the hint of a rap at the door entered my room. I turned around on the stool in front of my mirror, expecting my face to sufficiently reflect the offense I took at the intrusion, but little did he mind.

Lifting my suitcase that was standing behind the door, and pushing it into my arms, he tersely declared: "Pack your things. We're returning to London by the 8.15."

"What's that supposed ter mean!" I blustered, but his expression was so terrible that I gave in quickly.

He had lost all the superior indifference he had displayed earlier that afternoon. His clothes, usually the object of his most particular attention, were hanging around his frame in a wild disorder; he was pallid with sweat gleaming on his forehead.

I briefly considered the possibility that he had suddenly lost his reason, which made me stack my clothes into the suitcase more swiftly and with only fainthearted protests. He stood by and surveyed my actions closely, with his gaze avoiding the bed which during the preceding week had been the site of our financial transactions. I did not dare to speak up before half my trunk had been filled with collars and blouses.

"Mr. 'olmes, would you not like to explain ter me what this is all about?"

"I told you to pack your things and return to London with me, is that enough for you?"

"No, it ain't. Fancy that!" I stood with my hands on my hips and glowered at him angrily.

But my face was not flashed by anger only; my limbs did not tremble out of mere fury. I felt his dismay and it dismayed me, too. Something unusually alarming must have happened; otherwise he would not let himself be so affected. I was struck with sudden nervous concern, but he did not heed my condition, he was too much preoccupied by his own.

"What do I care if you know!" He pulled a crumpled bit of paper out of his pocket and tossed it over to me. "Probably everybody'll know before we reach the City!"

I picked up the paper and furtively glanced after him as he pushed open the doors to my balcony and stepped out into the open. What was the matter with him? On closer inspection, the paper proved to be the letter I had received from the receptionist some hours earlier. Despite its relative novelty, the paper looked much used already and was dog-eared, as if it had been read several times with augmenting agitation. I stooped over it and read:

_Dear Mr. Holmes!_

_I send you this letter instead of a telegram because one of my men is going to Brighton privately, and affords me the certainty that you shall have it at any rate and as quickly as possible. It is fortunate you supplied me with your vacation address, though I regret being obliged to bring your stay to an end. _

_A report of most disquieting content has reached us at the Yard in the small hours of the morning, and I went to inspect the crime scene personally. Sadly, there can be no doubt the Whitechapel murderer, better known as Jack the Ripper, has struck again. The victim's name is Mary Kelly, and the circumstances of her death deviate from those of her predecessors only in that they testify to an unparalleled bestiality, which you can only conjecture by the already ghastly mutilations of the other women. _

_I have had her corpse and the room in which she died scrupulously examined, but I am afraid it has all come to naught. The young man we had arrested for the crime I am going to release these days, as soon as he can be acquitted. He had already been on the death row, due on Friday next - so far for the good news._

_The bad news are, I am wholly confused and despairing of this case, and therefore appeal to your loyalty and sense of responsibility for the London citizens' safety. Please, come at once!_

_Warmest regards,_

_Lestrade_

I lowered the paper onto the muddles contents of my suitcase. So that was what had happened.

Holmes was standing out on the balcony, with his hands resting on the rail, but he did not grace the view with one tiny glance. His eyes were fixed to the floor, and he would not look up when I approached from behind him.

"Mr. Holmes…." I was too busy pitying him to notice how I had for once pronounced his name correctly. My mouth twisted with apprehension and concentration not to antagonize him, as I very gently tugged on his sleeve. "Please don't taike it too hard, Mr. Holmes. You know what Colonel Kincaid said today? To err is human…"

He laughed joylessly. "To err! My stupidity almost got an innocent man hanged, Kitty! Can't you comprehend how that makes me feel! Me, whom I never make mistakes…"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" I smiled weakly. "You should not say that. There is no such thing as infallibility in any man on earth, you know?"

He laughed again, laughed so tormented and full of disdain. "What do _you_ know! You have no idea, no idea at all! Your stupidity even exceeds mine, and that is something to say. Now go, finish your packing and weep if you like to, that's what you women do best…"

But I looked right through him, or so I thought. Very warily I reached for his large hand, and as he did not immediately withdraw it, closed both of mine around it. He allowed me to hold it for a very brief moment then shook it off with annoyance. I even trust I saw a spark of that irreconcilable hatred and mistrust in his eyes which had chastised my one and only attempt to seduce him.

"Let go!" he gnashed, sweeping past me and into my room. At the door he halted again and indicated my suitcase with a gesture. "You'll be ready for departure in ten minutes, or else remain where you are!"

And with these words he left me. I continued putting my things into the trunk, one after the other, mechanically. Only once did I stop and raise my head to hearken. In the adjoining room, water could be heard, rushing into some bowl or sink. Mr. Holmes was washing his hands. I again lowered my head and swiftly and silently finished my task.

oooOOOooo

We only just caught the 8.15. Mary remained at the hotel. She would have liked to accompany us into town, but time was scarce but she preferred packing her things at leisure, so Holmes and I travelled alone.

He did not talk one word during the two and a half hours, having provided himself with a supply of London papers at the train station, and I was left to idleness and boredom, for there was nobody else in the compartment to talk to.

We arrived at Victoria at a quarter to eleven. It was too late for him to call at the Yard, and we went straight home. Our trusty Mrs. Hudson had waited up for us with a warm supper. I would have felt quite at home, but there was Holmes' frostiness to prevent that. He would eat nothing, sent away Mrs. Hudson and started playing his violin, a pleasure that had been denied him during our holiday. In order to play, he had retreated to his bedroom, and I only heard his wistful, lugubrious music.

There was just that, and the ticking of the clock on the mantle, to keep me company as I dined. It was as if that clock had been turned back one week, I pondered. After all, nothing had changed. It was just as if the Brighton Ball had never happened, as if we had not gone out in a boat together, had not roamed the beach by night, had not exchanged words and ideas, had not shared the silence.

Brighton could as well never have happened – but that conjecture was defeated by the irredeemable certainty that I was entirely, totally, completely enamoured of the insupportable man behind that door. And I had another certainty. Namely that I would never, never cease trying to win his favour, even if that were to mean I would have to put a check on my heart and to give preference to the use of my head.

**A short one in between… So, we are back to Baker Street, and new developments lie ahead…**


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter fourty-one: Tears and Rain

9th August 1887

"_There's nothing here to take by storm/_

_To strategy we must conform." Goethe's Faust_

It was the rainiest August London had seen in years. The last drops of a heavy shower had just descended when I stepped on Dr. Watson's threshold and shook out my umbrella. Mary Jane, the tardy housemaid, ushered me into his consulting room.

"Well?" I asked breathlessly, hardly having exchanged salutes with the doctor.

"I'm very sorry, Kitty." He reclined in his chair, indicating the seat in front of his bureau civilly. "It was negative and continues being negative."

"Oh, blast!" I swore, following his invitation and sitting down, my umbrella dripping on the carpet all the while. "I mean – 'ow very unfortunate. D'ye think we could repeat it? Jus' ter maike sure?"

Watson scrutinized me mutely, and I began feeling rather uncomfortable under his gaze when finally he answered. "I think not, Kitty. You must be aware that this was the second pregnancy test in little more than one week, I reckon? There is just no point in repeating it infinitely."

"An' I felt so certain!" Despondently, I hung my head and picked my handkerchief to pieces. "I 'ad 'oped so much…"

"I told you there was no reason for worries", Watson said with an untypically sharp tone. "What's troubling you, child? Is it Holmes? Did he browbeat you again?"

"No! No really, 'e didn't!" I shook my head, appalled.

"You will, I'm sure, forgive me if I do not quite believe me", the doctor said surprisingly impetuously, "do not forget I am most intimately acquainted with him myself. I always had my means and ways to counter him, but if he starts wreaking his excessive egotism on you, I really think I should have a word."

"I tell ya 'e didn't! Why won't ya believe me?"

"Why? Kitty, I sent you on holiday in order to recover from him and to improve your health, but what happens? He accompanies you, and on your return I find you paler, thinner and looking more tired than ever! Please!" he leant over his desk and fixed me with his eyes. "I am not allowed, as a doctor, to say anything. But if only you would give me your permission, perhaps I could, as a friend…"

"No!" I repeated, shaking my head with increased vigour. "I am - fine, thank you Dr. Watson. An' Mr. 'olmes hain't breathed a word about the baby subject fer quite some time now. In fact, 'e don't even know I'm 'ere…" I chuckled briefly and self-consciously. "All the same…I am so awfully impatient. I wanna be the first ter know – the one ter tell 'im, an' not the other way round. Since ya knows 'im so well, you'll un'erstand me misgivings..wiv all of 'is observation an' deduction, 'e might well find out ever before me. An' that'd be so frightfully disappointing…which is why I've come to you."

"Only that?" I could sense his skepticism without looking at him.

"Yes…only that." I looked up and gave him a pleading glance. "Please, Dr. Watson…could we not do tha' test ever' week, from now on?"

"Weekly?" He frowned critically. "That'd be pointless, truthfully. You have to understand that there must be at least ten days between conception and a pregnancy test for the result to be reliable. We could agree upon, say, every second week – if it is that important to you."

"Oh thank you, thank you doctor!"

"Mind you – " he raised his index, " – there's no use in despairing over a childlessness after such a short time. Of course I can comprehend your concern…it is a painful issue; nobody knows that better than I. But in your case, nothing points into that direction, I told you so. You're young, strong, and if you look after your health, the joyous message is sure to come. Alright?"

"Yes", I sighed. His words contained no novelty, but after all a bit of reassurance was better than nothing.

"That's our Kitty. By the way, you won't mind my telling Mary you would call today, do you? She hoped you would look in on her afterwards…"

"For sure, I will. Ya'll 'ave better things ter do than listen to me wailings…"

He dismissed that with a smile and an amiable jerk of his head. "You can go straight in. Just across the hallway…"

"Thank you. I know my way."

I left Watson to his work and went to search Mary. She was in her parlour, and really she had just been pouring out Assam when I entered, as if she had been expecting me any minute.

"Kitty!" She turned around in her customary peppy manner. "How lovely you've found time to drop by! I've hardly seen you since my return from Brighton…"

We briefly discussed what had happened at the Bay View after Holmes' and my departure, which was not that much altogether. Mr. Youghal was said to have got off with a slap on the wrist, as there had been no actual complaint against him, and Mrs. Ragland had been so ashamed of her conduct that she had not dared to face Mary any more, thereby sparing my friend further whist evenings and such.

After some time, however, just when I had started feeling at my ease, Mary enquired: "Ahm – Kitty? Your calling on John today…does that possibly mean happy tidings?"

"No, no! 'e must 'ave told ya…"

"John tells me nothing", she interrupted me assertively. "He is the very soul of professional discretion, which is about the only common trait of our men. But I hoped you would be more…communicative?" Smiling impishly, she regarded me full of expectations. But I was obliged to disappoint her.

"It was nothing Mary…jus' a negative pregnancy test. The secon' one this week…I was so damn sure I were, but I wasn't."

"Hum…" A shadow passed over Mary's face. She had never told me about her own futile attempts, and I had not asked her. "Why was that, dear? I mean: What were the signs?"

"I felt sick an' dizzy un' morning – but that was after a drinking binge wiv my mates at the _Cock&Horse_, so it was probably that. It's jus' that I'm normally very able ter hold my drink…"

"That's strange. Perhaps you had something you weren't used to?"

I thought hard. "Maybe…Al Whittaker passed around some American stuff. Never mind. It was a false alarm."

Mary's gaze grew softer as she reached for my hand and pressed it briefly. "You wish for a child very much, don't you?"

"Y – yes", I croaked with an insecure voice. All of a sudden, a lump had formed in my throat.

"You will have it, you know. All you need is patience."

"Yes", I replied again. Somehow, there seemed to be nothing else to say. We sat in silence for a minute, until Mary said: "And how is Mr. Holmes doing? Does he make any progress in the Ripper case?"

The question, no doubt meant to distract me, precipitated me in only more profound desperation. "No", I mumbled, "He's totally outta 'is depth. We 'ave Inspector Lestrade over at Baker Street almost every day; an' if we don't, Mr. 'olmes is at the Yard…"

"That must be a great inconvenience to you."

"It is fine wiv me. I g-go out as much as possible so as not to be in the way."

"But surely for Mr. Holmes, it must be difficult?"

My good friend was astonished and dismayed when the lump in my throat suddenly loosened into a violent sob. "Oh Mary, I'm so frightened for him!"

"Good God…Kitty…"

"I 'ave never known 'im like that", I explained, weeping. "I don't appear to recognize 'im at all. H-he has ceased eating altogether, an' he don't sleep at night. I can 'ear 'im walkin' his room, hour after hour. He's wearing himself out, he's meager and aggressive an' 'as dark circles under 'is eyes. An' 'e seems so unhappy. I don't know what to do! I am at me wits' end!"

Mary had taken possession of my full arm and rubbed it comfortingly, listening to me with augmenting concern.

"I'm jus' so scared wiv 'im under one roof", I sobbed, "I'm so scared! I weren't if 'e didn't act irrationally. Las' night I went down ter take 'im to task about 'is wakefulness, I said: Whatcha doin' 'ere at that time o' night? An' ya knows what he replied?"

"What?" Mary asked mechanically. She was very white.

" 'e smirked eerily – as if – I dunno – 'e hated me! – an' 'e said: I'm a-worshippin' the moon! 'e was makin' fun o' me, an' I jus' tryin' ter help! I – I love 'im so, Mary!"

"Yes, dearest", my friend said gently, but with an exceedingly worried tone. "Of course you do."

"I 'aven't been talking ter 'im since", I went on crying. "I daren' t face 'im. But I'm not only frightened fer me – I fear 'e might – 'e might – do something foolish, ya knows! 'e seems capable o' everything currently. 'e's straining himself…"

"Does he drink?"

"Alcohol, ya means? Oh – I don't know. I don't think so. But 'e injects large quantities o' cocaine. 'e seems so unhappy!" I repeated tearfully.

Mary stroked my back soothingly. I drew a shivering breath, a bit calmer now the tears had been released. "So – you wanted to make him glad with the news of a child, I presume?" she asked shrewdly. I felt inclined to say yes, I did, but then I changed my mind. It would not do to have Mary come too close to the truth.

"Uh – I hardly know – I – jus' would do anything ter brighten 'is humour. Why does 'e taike things to heart that much, dammit!" I wiped my eyes with the back of my fist. "All because of that wretched case. Its eating 'im up, an' all can do is stand by and watch."

Mary's thoughts had evidently switched. "But…since you've come for that test twice this week…you're still being – affectionate, aren't you?"

"Y-yes", I sniffed.

"That's a good sign, isn't it?"

"Yeah - but it's not what you imagine!"

"In what way?"

"I – he – he can't really let himself go, you see? For him, it's all about reproduction", I confessed. "Oh, Mary, I – I've been afraid some time now that he's not quite normal. I know what normal men are like Mary, an' I tell you he's not! Every time, it gets so darned awkward. H-he's so strict about it an' sometimes 'e hurts me inadvertently 'cause 'e's so impatient fer it ter be over a-an' then 'e leaves me alone an' I can h-hear that 'e's washing next door…."

Vexed by shame and misery, I slumped against Mary's chest and sobbed mindlessly. She continued to stroke and hush me until again I got calmer.

"That really sounds very queer. But you mustn't loose heart Kitty, I won't have that. If he's got inhibitions or other difficulties, you're sure to get over it. You love each other."

"Do we?"

"You just told me so."

"Yeah, I love him…"

"…and he loves you", she finished my sentence. "It will prove but a temporary problem, and you will surmount it. Admittedly, I wasn't so sure about your marriage being a success when first we met…you seemed so strangely shy, as if you didn't know what to do with each other. But you've come such a long way since then. You're a positive _team_ now – I sensed that all the time when we were on holiday. I could see just how much you care about him. And Mr. Holmes, he depends on you very much. He really does."

"Indeed?" I lifted my tear-stained face, full of hope.

"Oh, believe me. I have an eye for such things. Naturally, he's not the man to display feelings greatly…but I am sure he dotes on you as you on him."

"Oh my….I 'ave prayed for him to do so…"

"You may rely on my knowledge of human nature. In respect to his current state, your anxieties are, perhaps, a little exaggerated. It may well be the first time for you to witness such scenes, but John, who can draw on many years of comradeship with Mr. Holmes, could tell you tales that would make the hair rise on your nape."

"D'ye really think so?"

"Why yes. He'll come around, in time. As regards the other trouble…"

Again she started talking about inhibitions and the tricks nature sometimes played on men, but I sat only half-listening. Mary had succeeded in dispelling my anxieties as concerned Holmes' present ravings, and she had even inspired me with a dim ray of hope as to winning a little bit of his esteem. But she had – thankfully! – not the faintest inkling of my recurring dream, half nightmare, half castle in the air.

It invariably featured a spur-of-the-moment tryst between Holmes and me in some shady nook of the house, during which he started handling me with perfectly non-ambiguous intentions. Usually, he would drag me straight to the floor, but nothing further had ever happened, for at this point I always woke with a start. I had had more vague and misty versions of this order of dreams before, but of late they were haunting me.

I felt myself incapable of continuing like that for much longer. Celibacy was all very fine, but these half measures were growing too much for me. By now, I anticipated his nightly visits with horror and loathing, and yet it was almost more than I could do to let him simply decamp afterwards. I felt drawn towards him…I….wanted to do things with him…But how explain that to Mary without revealing my true situation?

"What should I do", I sniffled, defeated.

"Oh darling…you must do what your heart tells you. I don't know Mr. Holmes so well, but as I rank him, he could not cope with complications and reproaches just now. You ought to support him in this time of need as much as you can, and you'll see he will thank you for it. Eventually, your relationship might emerge from the affliction much stronger and more relaxed."

"That sounds all very convincing – but what could I actually _do_?"

"Leave him alone and he'll come home", Mary said plainly. "Try and have some sympathy for his conduct, even if it seems mad. And be tender to make sure he doesn't forget your presence."

I shook my head hopelessly. "'e don't permit any tenderness…"

"It doesn't have to be anything grand. Just a little something to signify: I am here. Understand?"

"Right", I said indecisively. "But what to do when it comes to, um, the _occasion_? 'ow am I supposed ter act?"

"Like you did all along, I reckon!" Mary shrugged her shoulder with a perplexed little laugh. "Yield to him…I can imagine it must be unpleasant, but if he realizes you do what he wants, perhaps in time he'll be comfortable enough with you to – well, just be himself. And if he hurts you – cry!"

I had to laugh in spite of myself. "That'd scare him outta his senses!"

"Perhaps! Utterances of pain can be quite alarming for some men. But why should you suffer?"

"Why indeed?" I laughed again, liberated and relieved. "Oh Mary, you've become such a good friend, you know that?"

"Certainly I do. Otherwise we would hardly be having that discussion!" She became serious again. "But, if you really think you are too uneasy at home with the connubial menace, I'm sure we could arrange for you to stay some time with John and me."

I considered that briefly, but decided against it. "Thanks Mary. But I fear that wouldn't facilitate matters. Mr. 'olmes would not even un'erstand what it's all about – 'e's no very self-reflective person I'm afraid. An' on me return, 'e'd be terribly angry wiv me. What is more…"

"You wouldn't want to leave him just now?" she presumed. "Good girl, Kitty. I hope Mr. Holmes will come to appreciating your loyalty…"

"You wish!" I smiled grievously.

"Oh don't look so glum. He must have noticed he's not the most popular of fellows. Having someone to rely on must be a nice change!" She playfully poked my ribs. "And talking of people to rely on! We arranged to meet in Elephant and Castle on Saturday in order to paint the class rooms. Teachers and relatives and such…I would not refuse if you offered your assistance! Besides, it'd be a splendid opportunity for you to meet everybody."

"Right…Saturday…" Biting my nails, I let Mary talk, all the while pursuing my own anxious thoughts.

**Okay…the girls-talk was overdue, I guess. But do you think it right of Mary to give Kitty hope? She does not really know Holmes, after all.**

**Well I'm sorry for Kitty that her husband is such a psycho case, but that's just the way he rolls, she's got to deal with it. There are still plenty of ups and downs to be mastered….**

**Major love, Mrs.F**


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter fourty-two: Healing

11th August 1887

„_So may then pain and joyance/_

_successes and annoyance/alternatingly follow as they can." Goethe's Faust_

"At last!" Natasha embraced me enthusiastically. "It's been so long!"

"Good things come to those who wait. In fact, ya'll 'aver ter thank the rain", I explained, laughing. "A huge bank o' clouds drove me outta town!"

"And you had your landlady make cookies for me!" she ascertained, lifting the lid of the round steel box I had brought.

"Excuse me!" I was indignant. "I made 'em meself. Mrs. 'udson kindly let me use her oven, under 'er close surveillance ter be sure."

Natasha giggled delightedly. She looked much better, I thought. Her body, naturally slim and frail, had been enwound in a gossamer tiffany gown, and a lot of her dark hair had been taken off, the resulting bob coiffure revealing much of her angelic face.

We sauntered out into the garden. It was neither very large nor very well maintained, but I liked the wide open spaces with their long grass interspersed with marguerites, dandelion and other late bloomers.

"An' 'ow are you doin', darling?" I enquired, well aware that the only topics to be discussed with Natasha were Natasha's very own concerns. She was not the person to be interested in other people's joys and sorrows. She would not even think of that.

"Oh, I am indeed much improved!" She beamed all over her face. "They say I shall be released shortly."

"That's wonderful! What d'ye intend ter do? Yer not returning to that rat-trap o' yers, are ya?"

"Why not?" Natasha said obstinately. The thought of making a change had ever been disagreeable to her.

"'cause it is a hotbed o' despair an' depression, lazy bones! Oh well", I sighed, "I'll see to that for ya. The most important thing is yer recovery. It seems nothing short o' a miracle, considering your previous state!"

"I know! It feels as if an infinite nightmare were finally over. I even seem to be over Baron Gruner. You know, in spite of everything he did to me – the degradation – the things he made me do – I was still in love with him." She suddenly seized my arm. "Oh Kitty, is it wrong of me to be glad you disfigured him? I am certainly no evil person – or a ruthless one – but I always think it probably saved so many innocent girls. Don't you?"

"Don't I?" I laughed boisterously. "Day an' night I regret I was unable to do more than that! Gruner deserved ter be struck to the ground! 'e ought ter 'ave been tortured!"

I started crazily jumping back and forth, to and fro on the garden path. "'e ought 'ave 'ad 'is eyes gouged by my heels! 'is nails ripped out! Thumbscrews applied! 'is every hair plucked out from the inside! 'is manhood severed!"

"Kitty!" Natasha gave herself airs of being appalled, but it was only five minutes later that we proceeded on our way, chanting: "Ripped out! Plucked! Severed!"; until we were quite hoarse. Our mood was at its best when at the end of the path, a man emerged from the bushes and Natasha was struck silent.

"Ah! The ladies seem to be very…um, enlivened by something!" he observed uncertainly, his gaze wavering between us.

My friend blushed prettily, stammering: "Why - oh – Kitty, this is Dr. Levhin, my therapist. Doctor, this is Kitty, Kitty Holmes. I told you she'd call today."

"Indeed, indeed you did. And how do you do, Mrs. Holmes?" he asked politely, shaking my hand.

"'ow do you do?" I returned, wondering what and how much Natasha had actually told him about me, for he definitely was the kind of man any woman would wish to impress favourably. He was unusually handsome, shapely of limb and feature, with a young face that engaged sympathy at first glance. Now he solicitously stepped over to Natasha, mildly berating her:

"I did tell you this get-up was too flimsy for a walk in the park, didn't I? You shall get cold. Here, allow me…" And he slipped out of his jacket and covered Natasha's delicate shoulders with it. I flashed a meaningful glance at her, but she was too nonplussed to return it.

"Well…what 'bout a turn around the estate?" I suggested eventually, when my companions were only regarding each other mutely. "Are ya joining us, Dr. Levhin?"

"I must – back to the house", he explained hastily. "I shall see you in the afternoon, Miss Orlansky. Do not forget the hour…"

He took his leave, and I issued an appreciative whistle. "My word, Natasha! You certainly hit the mark there. Could yer falling outta love wiv the Baron possibly 'ave ulterior reasons?"

"Oh, I… Doctor Levhin is quite a gentleman", she conceded after much evasive stammering. "I confess my leave from this place shall be overshadowed by some measure of regret - on my part, at least."

"Perhaps it don't need ter be good-bye fer ever?" I suggested merrily. "'e seemed ter 'ave taken rather a shine t'ya. If ya asks me, 'e makes a perfect candidate fer yer future life!"

"Oh, I don't know…" she lowered her eyes, smiling all the same.

"Why, o' course. If he e'en takes the professional risk o' seeing ya in private, ya cannot very well call 'im indifferent. Surely 'e'll make an effort ter keep in touch wiv you."

"I hope so." Natasha's modesty was as stalwart as was her phlegm.

"What are them therapy sessions actually about, if I may enquire?" I asked her.

"It's mostly me talking and him listening, asking questions occasionally. I tell him everything: About my past, my misfortunes, how I went down with the world…"

"An' about me!" I ascertained brashly.

"Yes…and that." She chuckled.

"Oh dear, I am so glad yer better!" impulsively I threw my arms around her. "From now on, all shall be well. I shall get ya a plaice ter stay when ye're released, an' we shall recommence seeing each other very often. And ya'll continue seeing yer smart doctor. An' ya'll finally meet my 'usband!"

"Will I?" She seemed uncomfortable with the idea. "I don't think I'm quite ready to meet new people yet…naturally I'm curious…but the prospect rather frightens me."

"There's no need!" I giggled jauntily. "Rest assured 'e's crazier'n you are. Perhaps, he is the one who ought ter 'ave spent a quarter in this place, or let's say five years fer good measure!"

"Is it that bad?" Natasha's pupils dilated. "Is he really crazy?"

"Crazier'n hell", I professed solemnly.

oooOOOooo

The day at Sheperd's Bush and the consequential train ride had fatigued me, and I was glad to have the _Cock&Horse_ pub as a resort to spend the evening at. Coarse laughter hailed me when I pushed open the old green door and stepped over the threshold.

"Hullo, ever'body!"

"Oy, Kitty!" Porkey slid off his stool to offer it to me.

"Nah, stay seated, I won't remain fer long. I'm ta'red out."

"That'd be a damned shame!" Ernie, who had stood bent down, perked his head up behind the counter. "When we see ya so little these days! At least 'ave a drink, c'mon!"

"No drink, either. I've 'ad enough o' that bleedin' stuff ya sells the other day. Knocked me clean out, an' then next mornin' I was cranky'n sick."

"Might 'ave other reasons, don't ya think?" Ernie smirked. "Don't raise hell over me spirits. Did none o' the other fellers any harm."

"Ey, Kit! Are ya…?" Teddy Kehoe insinuated an enormous stomach with his hands. Another roar of laughter ensued among the men.

"No I ain't, imagine!" I retorted snippily. "If ye're jus' lookin' fer some kind o' laughing stock, I'd better be on ma way 'ome!"

"Oh, but he ne'er meant it!" Al Whittaker said reassuringly, putting his hand on my arm and installing me forcibly on his seat. "Now don't be a spoil sport gal, drink with us. Night was jus' on a point a getting' real jolly."

"Aye…a small 'un, perhaps", I agreed reluctantly.

Ernie poured out a shot glass of Vermouth out for me, and I carefully nipped on it while the conversation progressed.

"Been a hell of a lot a reports in the paper again 'bout this Ripper business", Mr. Whittaker just said, and Porkey nodded affirmatively.

"A bloody mess it is, an' not over yet, far as I can see. Whyn't the bottles do something about it, eh? What's the use o' forces that don't do their work?"

"What about yer boiler, Kit?" Ernie asked casually, uncorking a bottle of wine. "Don't 'e lend the officials a hand in tha' case? Hain't I 'eard ya mention that?"

"That's right. 'e an' Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard are workin' on't."

"Well, what do they think 'e does it for?" Porkey wondered. "People say 'e must either be crackers or hate whores, since 'e always goes for those."

"'ardly that", I exclaimed pompously. "No, Mr. 'olmes thinks 'e must be an extreme misantroph, or e'en a misogynist possibly, who goes fer the easiest prey ter gratify 'is instincts. Mr. 'olmes says them single, unprotected, friendless women are an endangered species, whom in case o' death or disappearance nobody makes a great fuss about."

"But how could knowing his motives help him _find_ the Ripper?" Al Whittaker pensively stroked his goatee.

"Tha's the point. It don't help much…"

"Ey, lemme pass!" Porkey got up and squeezed past me. He obviously had lost interest in the discussion. "I'm goin' out fer a cough'n drag. Anybody join me?" But the rest of my audience was too eager for more information to even mind him. Shrugging his shoulder, he strolled out.

I made "Pha!" and continued: "Anyway. Mr. 'olmes an' Lestrade are workin' on a strategy ter trap the criminal – "

"Yeah?" Teddy's eyes were short of falling out of his head.

"Very simple", I explained superiorly. "They're going ter install a prostitute in their pay in 'un o' the pertinent places in Whitechapel – as a bait, ya sees. The Ripper is known ter ask the services o' them women an' then taike 'em ter a silent spot or follow 'em into their rented rooms."

"Where 'e does 'em brown!" Teddy interjected.

"Precisely so. But we're goin' ter prevent this by havin' two police constables ready in her room. They are ter seize the man an' search 'im fer blades an' knifes. If 'e don't 'ave any, they are instructed ter let 'im run. If 'e does, why, then it's bang to rights."

"What if the Ripper kills the bait beforehand?" Ernie objected. "Before they reach the room, I mean?"

"'olmes an' Lestrade are goin' ter anticipate this by crowdin' the whole house wiv their people in disguise", I told him. "O' course, a certain risk remains…"

"I'm not sure this is very well thought out", Al slowly shook his head. "What guarantee do ya have that your man approaches your woman of all? They's plenty a choosing down there in Whitechapel."

"Not anymore. The women are frightened. They're encouraged ter lay low till the feller is un'er lock an' key. Chances are not that slim altogether. Possibly it'll taike some time, but sooner or later, it must succeed."

"Talk might spread through those whom you let run", he insisted, but I only smirked.

"I think not. Men are not so fond o' sharin' their less creditable experiences wiv others, generally." There was a subdued murmur, but finally most of my listeners seemed to accept the validity of my argument.

"Ay….let's 'ope, then, that Mr. 'olmes' plan is goin' ter work out!" Ernie eventually said, "an' as soon as possible. Feller's afraid ter let 'is own daughters outta the house."

"'an 'is wife!" Teddy added, but the landlord burst into a roar of laughter. "Nah, not 'er! The Ripper may 'ave 'er, fer all that I care."

"When's it all gonna happen, Kitty?" Teddy and some other youngsters overwhelmed me with questions, but I waved them away.

"I'm fagged out, chaps. Think I'll be on me way…"

I bade everybody good night and made for the door, but was intercepted by Ernie, who took me aside bashfully. "Look 'ere girl…I meant ter ask ya…I means, I was wonderin'…whether ya'd be prepared ter do an old pal a favour…"

My eyes narrowed to slits. "I don't 'ave any chink ter spare, you relentless pain in the neck! Ye're awready deeper indebted than the Bank o' England!"

"Now re'lly Kitty…if ya knows I'm that deep in trouble, ya'll un'erstand…"

"I understand nothing!" I hissed. "I told ya you wouldn't get a penny from me! I'm sick o' yer constant naggin'!"

"Oh, that so?" he snorted. "Strange, I thought you 'ad jus' achieved an advantageous marriage, an' that ya were supporting that lunatic friend o' yers!"

"That's an entirely different case! Natasha can't help 'er ailment, but ya could 'elp yer gamblin' debts very easily! Does yer wife know yer customers are only spendin' so freely 'cause they know they'll be winnin' everything back?"

"You heartless bogtrotter!" Ernie foamed. "'ere you've been sittin' a-drinkin' wiv us, but all the time I knew ya thought yerself better than those chaps, an' since yer damned marriage it all got but worse'n worse! Don't dare ter call yerself a mate anymore, ya hear! Don't ya…"

"Easy, easy, guys." Al had stepped behind Ernie and gently pulled him back. Without noticing it, we had been standing almost nose-tip to nose-tip.

Ernie evidently wished to hurl some scathing word of farewell at me, but somebody at the bar called for him, so he only spat on the floor and turned his back on us. Al grinned.

"Nasty old fool. Ne'er seen such a sucker for money in my life."

"'xactly", I muttered under my breath, still angry.

"Well, well…goin' home gal? Right you are. I'll bring ya, it's not safe in the road at this hour. Mar'lebone, ain't it? Jus' a second. I'm getting' my jacket…"

Al would have scarcely needed any over clothes, for outside the evening was warm and sweet, and in spite of the time it was only just dawning. However, I soon learned about the advantages of his jacket which had a vast number of pockets. From one of those, he retrieved a brass hip flask. "'ave a bit? Yer dress is so flimsy, I'n't want yer to get cold."

"It's awright, thank ya Al. I don't re'lly feel like it today."

"Righto. Still, I think ya ought to dress a li'le more reasonable. Tha's a poor joke of a frock. Wait a moment!" We stopped at the entry of a dark, narrow alleyway between Ernie's pub and the adjoining house. "You gotta loose thread there…on yer collar. May I?"

I stood still as his fingers moved up my neck in order to remove the thread. When I glanced over his shoulder, however, I issued a shrill shriek. A fiery glow had flashed through the alleyway, sudden and eerie.

"What's a matter?" Al whirled around to see what had alarmed me.

"Have a butcher's! There…in the darkness…"

He squinted his eyes against the gloom. "Is there anyone?" he called with a clear, firm voice.

"Aye…there is alright." A low chuckle hailed us from the obscurity, and out of it came Porkey, small cigar in one hand, matchbox in the other.

"Porkey!" I sighed with relief. "'ow ya startled me! Them cuts o' yers chilled my marra!"

"Sorry, girl. Di'n't mean ter. Watcha up to, anyways? Lookin' fer me?"

"Pretty Kitty's on her way home", Al explained.

"'ad a li'le row wiv Ernie", I added.

"That dirty crab louse. But ya knows what, I'll bring ya. Baker Street's on me way." He copiously thrust the matchbox back into his baggy trousers and put his hand on my back. "Thank ya Whittaker, ya may go back inside. Tell Ernie ter be ashamed o' 'is moneygrubbing self."

"See ya baked, Al!" I waved him good-bye and locked arms with Porkey, who with unhurried steps strolled down the sidewalk.

"What business d'ye 'ave in Mar'lebone?" I quizzed him, but as I had suspected, he grinned and replied: "I hain't. Jus' wanted ter talk wiv you privately, Kit."

I maintained an inviting silence, and he continued: "Well, girl…I been thinkin'. I know ya told the folks in there ya weren't expecting, an' I can't blame ya for't. But is it the truth?"

"Why d'ye ask?" I looked down my inconsiderable length. "'ave I put on weight?"

"No ya hain't. Jus' 'eard ya complain 'bout sickness an' thought, hell, she jus' wants ter shut up the nosy chaps."

I smiled apologetically. "It is the truth, alas."

"Sure about that?"

"A hunnerd percent sure." I cocked my head, still smiling. "What ya drivin' at, Porkey?"

"Well, jus' ….when the time 'as come, will ya lemme know first? Before the other fellers, I mean?"

"That I will Porkey. Soon as I learn it."

"Promise?"

I reached for his chubby, horny workman's paw and pressed it quite firmly. "Promise."

**Gosh! All the world's so impatient for the baby! I'd feel browbeaten…**

**Love, Mrs.F**

**Cockney:**

**To have a cough and drag - smoke a cigarette**

**Crackers – loony**

**Cuts - matches**

**To do so. brown – to kill so.**

**Bang to rights – caught in the act**

**Bogtrotter – Irishman/woman**


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter fourty-three: With brush and paint

12th August 1887

"_Behold my art and with great pleasure too./_

_What no man yet has seen, I'll give to you." Goethe's Faust_

There was no actual welcome ceremony. As soon as I arrived at the indicated address in Elephant and Castle, a perfect stranger handed me a brush and a pot of paint, another slipped a stained apron over me, and Mary took me by the shoulders and led me into a corner of a long hallway with adjoining staircase, where two men were already at work.

"Here you are. I'll introduce everyone later, we must get started."

"Won't ya show me over the place…?" I asked, but she merely replied: "Later!" and was gone.

Rather sulky, I dipped my brush into the pot of paint and tried some strokes across the wall, but the result was not a very good one. Usually I was not too inexpert at such tasks, but the paint was cheap and the wall roughly plastered.

"You'd better wait a minute and then go over it again", my neighbour advised me calmly. "The paint will look better if applied on an already dried coat."

I nodded my appreciation and just wanted to put away my brush when a certain genteel, unexcited quality in the voice of the man made me halt. "Mr. G-!"

"Very sorry I can't possibly shake hands with you. You see…" And he lifted his right, which was covered in splotches up to the wrist.

"Oh, but this is a surprise! I 'ad no idea you were acquainted wiv Mary Watson!"

"We met recently at a charity event, and she was quick in enlisting my assistance", he told me smilingly.

"I see…" The first coat of paint had now dried, and I commenced covering it with a second layer. "So, you are much engaged in charity affairs? That's praiseworthy."

"Not so very much. I take a professional interest in all social conditions. I think the evening when Mrs. Watson and I made our acquaintance was dedicated to the clearing of the slums."

"Well, it is good of you to pay attention to such things, nonetheless!"

"Not half as good as you think. Appeasing the upper classes bad conscience, rather…"

"It amounts ter the same result. And since ya also advocates female emancipation, this enterprise 'ere is a scheme very convenient t'ya. It's going ter be a girl's school!"

"So I'm told." We worked for some time in silence.

"'ow's yer novel doin'?" I enquired eventually. "Wasn't it about an artist's model an' a jealous 'usband?"

"Oh, those!" He shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. "Those were merely minor characters. No, the story mainly focuses on another couple, unhappily married…"

I raised my brows. "I would expect no less."

"Yes, but there you are. I had them split up, but the man is trying to win her back…he's desperate for a son…"

I had a strong feeling I didn't want to know any more, and more out of courtesy, I enquired: "Does 'e succeed?"

"Oh no…but I plan to have him marry another woman, for a child only."

He must have sensed my aversion to the topic, for again he ceased talking. Only after a while he asked: "How about yourself? Have you seen our painting friend lately?"

"Lorenzo?" I felt a sudden pang of conscience. "No – no, I don't seem ter 'ave chanced…."

"Naturally. There are always so many other things to do", Mr. G- bailed me out politely. I shook my head.

"I must confess 'e completely slipped my mind. He'll be angry…we've been workin' on a picture, ya sees."

"I have heard about that. That friend of Phoebe's, Lord George Lewis, is said to take a special interest in it, did you know? He has offered to include it in his private exhibition in autumn."

"No, I didn't know that." I furrowed my brow.

"Well yes, and if I were Mr. Burini, I'd accept. It'd mean a great advance to his career, the Lord is a well-respected connoisseur and his house is frequented by expert art dealers…"

"You think it might help him?"

"By all means. Mr. Burini shouldn't leave that painting too long…"

I thought briefly and said: "I shall – " But at that moment, Mary came up the stairs, calling for her helping hands. All was ready for a noontime snack.

oooOOOooo

It was evening before I returned home. Ginger Jack was waiting for me in the hall, he had flown the cigar smoke that wafted thickly from under Mr. Holmes' door.

"Mrs. 'udson?"

"Madam?" The landlady peeked out of her flat.

"Are they still goin' on about the Ripper up there?"

"I'm afraid so, madam. The Inspector has come in some hours ago and I haven't heard him leave." She raised her shawl in front of her face before coughing quietly.

"Ya don't look too well, Mrs. 'udson. Did I wake ya from sleep?"

"It is nothing, madam. Only this cigar smoke…oh I wish they'd stop that, it invades every room in the house."

"I'm going ter open the windows", I determined, "and tell 'em to cease polluting the air."

"I'd rather stand the smoke than tell Mr. Holmes that", Mrs. Hudson confessed meekly. "He's been terribly on edge all day, though I learn they are making some way. And please – " she took me by the arm pleadingly, "keep the cat out of his rooms!"

"O' course. We don't want Mr. 'olmes ter cough, do we?" I asked grimly. "Now it is all very well, Mrs. 'udson. Jus' go back ter bed. Ya looks cracking tired."

The old lady took my advice, and I climbed the stairs to the first floor and entered unannounced. There was no need for formalities. Inspector Lestrade had become kind of an additional piece of furniture in this room lately, constant, cumbrous, irremovable. Also today, he did not even bother to get up on my entering, we restrained ourselves to a brief nod and a couple of mumbled words before he and Holmes again put their heads together. While I was not particularly fond of his sly, grey, rodent-like presence, I preferred him a thousand times to Athelney Jones with his red, blurted drinker's visage and his houndstooth jacket.

"Any news?" I enquired casually, placing my hand on Holmes' shoulder as I bent over it. I had adopted a habit of grazing him, of touching him lightly and as if by accident: A brush of the hand, pat on his arm or oblivious welcoming peck on his cheek. He could not very well shove me away in front of others.

"Some little progress", Lestrade explained strangely embarrassed, turning the photographs he and Holmes had been looking through on their face. "It is now almost certain that the Ripper must be a foreigner. Of course, I have always held this view, but now there is incontrovertible evidence."

"Oh?"

"In the close vicinity of every crime scene, anti-Semitic libels have been smeared on walls shortly after the crime. We failed to make a connection until now, but the writings have been examined by the forensic psychologist, and evidently the writer is very seriously disordered."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Could be hoax, like them so-called Ripper letters."

"They _could_ be", Lestrade obviously was annoyed. "I, however, think it very likely the writings were penned by the killer, and Mr. Holmes agrees with me."

"But in what way do they indicate a foreigner? Surely, there are plenty of English anti-Semitics?"

"They're misspelt – in a way uncharacteristic of an Englishman. Again, this could be a _mere blind_, of course."

Holmes had shown no sign that he was eager to participate in our discussion. He had taken the photographs abandoned by Lestrade, and examined them carefully. Now he sorted some of them out and laid them on the table. "I think these qualify for the shortlist, Inspector."

"Why – if you think so…" Lestrade got a candy red head, and I curiously leant further over Holmes' shoulder to catch a glimpse. The photographs showed girls – many girls of varying age and beauty, but they had one thing in common: They were all rather sparsely dressed.

"We should always appoint a couple of them at a time", Holmes said, "in order to increase chances."

It dawned on me. "Ah – that's them women you want ter use as baits?"

"We ought to offer a handsome reward in return for their personal risk", Holmes continued, not betraying any sign that he had even heard my interjection. "A guinea per girl and evening seems a fair inducement, don't you think Lestrade?"

"Just as you say, Mr. Holmes. We can't afford being curmudgeonly just now. Time is running short – and we need to act. The Ripper strikes at fixed intervals, you know", he told me, while Holmes still preferred ignoring my hand on his shoulder and my presence in the room altogether.

"That's settled, then. I shall inform the – manageress – about the ladies we chose, and we'll contact them as soon as possible."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade was evidently glad he could leave this part to his colleague. "As to their protection…"

The conversation seemed to pass me by, somehow. I felt redundant. After conscientiously opening all the windows in the room for the smoke to clear away, I left the men, now embroiled in an argument whether or not to equip the baits with weapons of their own. Picking up my cat, which was pitiably meowing on the landing, I retreated to my room. Holmes would never warm to me, I thought sadly. He would never even accept my attempts to share his professional anxieties. There was just that one thing he wanted from me – and I was just as far from giving it to him as ever.

With a deep sigh, I stepped over to my desk and started to search for pen and ink. It was high time I sent Lorenzo a life sign, or he would be huffy forever. Where had I left the paper? With my thoughts already on the formulation of my letter, I tried the drawer on the right, naturally without success. I kept forgetting that it was clamped, cramped, locked, could not be opened, as much as I tried, and offered no insight. However, there was paper still in the left drawer. I sat down and composed a short note for my Italian friend.

oooOOOooo

14th August 1887

"Kitty?" Lorenzo's face in the clearance between door and frame seemed so surprised I felt compelled to ask: "Didn't ya get my note?"

"Oh…that. Yes, of course. I got it. Come in!" A little disappointed in that not very warm reception, I stepped into his stuffed little studio. The canvas with my counterfeit, though not worked on in weeks, still stood in the centre of the room.

Lorenzo offered no opening for a conversation, so I observed: "You gotta red smear on yer smock", just for something to say.

"Yes, I know. I stained myself with paint", he returned stiffly.

I lowered my eyes. "Lorenzo, I am awfully sorry I didn't get in touch wiv ya in so long…"

"Oh, please." He dismissed me with a forced little laugh. "Married women are always so very busy. I should have kept to painting housemaids and chorus girls."

"No – Lorenzo! I've been away by the seaside wiv my husband, an' I simply forgot to tell ya, otherwise I surely would 'ave come…"

"You don't need to apologize to me, you know", he returned with a strange smile. "You've deserved a honeymoon of sorts, and I hope you enjoyed yourself."

I uncertainly looked at him for some moments. "Look, Lorenzo, I really want you ter forgive me. It was wrong not ter let you know. But I am 'ere now an' we can complete the picture…"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I've lost interest in that picture, I think. I am not at all sure I'll want to complete it…."

"But you must!" I opened my eyes widely. "Think of Lewis! O' 'is exhibition! Mr. G- said it'd be immensely important fer ya to be represented there. Jus' consider, somebody might want ter buy it!"

"Bah", Lorenzo yawned with the entire derision of the artistic person. "Money."

"Will ya do it fer me, then?" I seized him by the arm and pressed it anxiously. "Well ya finish the picture fer my sake?"

His eyes scrutinized me deliberatively as I held on to him. "I don't know whether I can", he said slowly. "You look changed…"

"Oh I am not Lorenzo, I am not!"

He sighed deeply and passed his thumb over my cheek with a wistful smile. "Alright then, let's try. Take off your clothes, please…"

We had set up the washing stand in no time, and I stooped over it, letting a strand of my hair curl over my ear, face turned at the mirror. Lorenzo had assumed his place behind the canvas; he worked with his characteristic, sparse movements. We talked little at first, apart from an occasional demand like "Stoop lower", "Straighten your head", "Part your lips".

"Lorenzo", I said after a while, "do you think you'll manage ter complete the picture in time?"

"Hm….? In time for what?" He enquired, scratching over the canvas with one of his delicate knives to take off a layer of paint.

"Fer the exhibition. You will lend it to the Lord, won't ya?"

"Why is that so important to you?"

"I don't know…" Bashfully I lowered my head. "I jus' thought…perhaps you'd be abler ter taike a better studio…sell more pictures…"

"I like this studio. And I sell enough to live on, most of the time. Raise your head!" He reminded me.

"Yes…" I obeyed, though I felt I would have liked to lower it even more. Lorenzo was so different from me, so infinitely better. His poverty had never mattered to him; he had no desire for money or social ambitions. But I, I was so superficial – had been dazzled by Gruner's riches – had thrown myself into Holmes' arms just because of his position – certainly I deserved to suffer? And suffer I did…I did…

"Kitty! Porca vacca!"

I winced as Lorenzo banged his palette to the floor and rushed past the canvas, grasping me by the shoulders. "I told you not to think of him! You're spoiling the picture!" Appalled I looked up into his blazing eyes. "I tell you once and for all! When in this studio, you're not the wife of some English middle class man, you are the sensual mistress just risen from her bath, the plaything, the coquette, the pretty naught-but-the-instant! You can't have worries etch frowns into your face! I can't let you!"

"Let go of me, Lorenzo", I whispered. "You frighten me!"

We regarded each other mutely for an instant, until he finally let me go. "Do you want me to finish the painting, yes or no?"

"Yes, yes. You know that I do", I squeaked anxiously.

"Good! Then pray have the discipline not to think of your private concerns. You mustn't think of any man, apart from man in general, as an abstraction. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lorenzo. I'll do what you demand", I averred eagerly. The scary glow in his eyes had extinguished, and he sighed again with his wistful smile. "Alright, then. Shall we try again?"

**Hey!**

**What do you think? ;-)**

**Anyone guessed the identity of Mr. G-, by the way? He's not my invention. Come on, where's the literature freaks/ 19****th**** century fans? **

**Love, Mrs.F**


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter fourty-four: Labour of love

16th August 1887

"_I know not what compels me to your will." Goethe's Faust_

It was the third time in one week. Mrs. Hudson, coughing harder now than formerly, had withdrawn to her private flat, under protest against _such liberties in my house_. Watson, who could boast superior human qualities and tact, compared to us others, had been asked to usher the callers in, and I had been ordered to attend also, as a reassuring female presence so to say.

I think we all three knew from experience that our enterprise was futile, but for Holmes' sake, the doctor and I had silently agreed to give it another try. The detective gathered together all his patience and civility as a giggling, chit-chatting hoard of young women invaded his consulting room.

"Good evening ladies. Please be seated. I shall explain presently…"

"I very serrriously hope this interview won't be a waste of our time, Mr. Holmes", a short, stout woman with bushy eyebrows declared with a hard eastern European accent. She had come in behind her clamouring girls, who, dressed properly if frivolously, were now shoving each other around, in quest of something to sit on. Rapidly they had occupied every chair and stool in the room, and some were even sitting on the sideboard, the table and the window sill. "Yourrrr last commission did not prove to be verrrrry profitable for us. Had I known the risks at stake, I should cerrrtainly have asked a higher price. Considerrring the personal damage to one of my girls – "

"Yes, I very much regret the loss of Irina's fringe", Sherlock Holmes replied solemnly, though there was a hidden smile playing around his lips that did not escape the brothel keeper.

"You may think it funny Mr. Holmes, but I must say it was verrry inconvenient for me – verrry inconvenient. She could not work for weeks afterwards, until it had grown back. Our clients have expectations, you see."

"Fine…we will agree to a pay scale more profitable for you. We assessed a guinea per night for each girl – ", there was a circulation of pleasantly startled breaths, " – however, I don't think we shall be able to employ all of them, at least not all at one time. I thought half a dozen ladies each night – "

"Oh, but what is the job going to be, then?" A young blonde head asked cheekily. "Whom are we going to amuse?"

Her eyes quickly scanned the room, grazed Watson and eventually came to rest on Holmes with a certain quizzical covetousness. I made sure to step very closely to his side, so as to mark my marital status, and glared at the thoughtless offender. But Holmes' complacency was not to be shaken.

"That won't be part of the actual commission, madam. To make a clear breast of it, you are intended as baits to capture a dangerous criminal."

Subdues murmur arose; some of the women seemed a little more impressed. The blonde head merely raised her eyebrows. "So, that's the reason for the generous fee? No unsavoury clients, no twisted special requests?"

"Nothing of the kind, madam."

The women again started to trade their opinion; they deliberatively pursed their lips and nodded at each other. "But the security!" Their manageress insisted. "Will it be ensured?"

"the plan is as follows." Holmes raised his hands to re-establish silence, and elaborated: "Five or six women shall be chosen and installed downtown at strategic spots, under the secret surveillance of the police to be sure. They will be expected to accept every – I repeat, every! – offer of business, but on no account are they to remove themselves from the immediate neighbourhood. Instead, they must lure their customers into a rented room we shall provide beforehand. The rest, you may safely leave to the officials…"

"Well!" The stout brothel keeper crossed her arms in front of her broad chest and squinted her eyes. "And how about an advance, Mr. Holmes? Just to be on the safe side?"

He cast down his eyes demurely. "You have but to name the sum."

The woman appeared to be satisfied, but the young blonde girl next to us recommenced: "Mr. Holmes!"

"What is it, madam?"

"I think you have neglected to tell us a very crucial detail", the shrewd wench told him slyly.

"And that would be?"

"The name of the man we are supposed to capture!"

He looked as though he were struggling with himself, and kept his silence for a while. In the end, however, he cleared his throat and met the gaze of the expectant women. "I think for the sake of fairness, and to establish correct business conditions, it is necessary for me to tell you that the envisaged operation concerns a serial killer generally referred to as Jack the Ripper – "

He was not even left to finish the sentence. Around the room, excited hisses and the nervous froufrou of two dozen skirts became audible. "I must really say, Mr. Holmes….!" The manageress boomed, but she was not left the time to speak neither, the surge of her alarmed employees practically washed her through the door opening and carried her down the stairs. Within two minutes, our room was perfectly empty apart from Holmes, Watson and me.

oooOOOooo

"Blast!" The detective forcefully hit his fist on the table top, where only one moment earlier three or four girls had been sitting. "I cannot believe it! Why do they never even hear me out? Why is it that as soon as I mention that wretched name, they run like hares?"

"Presumably because of certain bloody implications this name implies" Watson said, defeated. He sat down by the table and crossed out something in his notebook. "Complete failure. And for the third time, too…"

We fell silent as Holmes locked his arms on his back and started pacing the carpet, brows drawn together so tightly that they seemed to form one single line across his forehead.

"We could try this newspaper advertisement", Watson finally suggested without real conviction. "A group of actresses searching whatever employment…"

"And lose more time?" Holmes exclaimed, flinging out his arm dramatically. "No, impossible! The murder of Mary Kelly now lies back almost three weeks. He'll strike gain soon, depend upon it! This week….or the next…we have to be prepared!"

For some reason, Watson seemed extremely uncomfortable. Insecurely, he said: "Don't you think we should counsel with Lestrade before making a decision? He might have something up his sleeve, and we could just…"

"I told you we needed to act, Watson! Lestrade won't help us much, he relies completely on us. It is time to resort to plan K!"

"Plan…K, Mr. 'olmes?"Puzzled, I looked from my husband to the doctor, who seemed incredibly unhappy, and back to Holmes, who had advanced towards me and extended his hand.

"Kitty, my dear. Do you trust me?"

"Mr. 'olmes, what….?"

"Hush! Answer my question. _Do_ you trust me?"

"Ye-es", I said warily, taking the proffered hand.

"Holmes, I really don't think – "Watson began, but his companion silenced him with the index raised to his lips.

"If I will now ask you to do something for me, you will have sufficient faith in me to do my bidding without opposition, won't you, dearest?"

"Why – why yes", I stammered nervously. The prolonged contact with his dry, sensitive skin and the direct gaze from his unfathomable eyes, so rarely fixed on me with their full attention, made my mind swim. "Ya knows I'd do anything ter be of use", I muttered shyly. Oh these eyes. I wished with all my heart they would never cease regarding me. Lovely – lovely – beautiful –

"Will you place yourself at our disposal as bait for the Ripper?"

"No!" I shrieked, stumbling backwards and trying to withdraw my hand. "No, no! No, I don't trust you at all, Mr. 'olmes! Let go off me, let go!"

"Holmes, old chap…if she really doesn't want to…" So, that was the reason why they had wished me to be present. And Watson had known it! I flashed him and angry glare, but he was too busy trying to dissuade Holmes to take notice. "It is dangerous, Holmes! It is one thing to ask it of a stranger in exchange for money, but to ask it of your own devoted wife surely is extremely unfair!"

Holmes finally let go of my hand and made a very intolerant sniff. "She has got a choice, has she not? Kitty, you are free to say if you do not want to help me." He paused and again looked at me in this very, very particular way, as if he meant to add: "But you _will_ help me, won't you?"

"Oh, but…Mr.'olmes, why does it 'ave ter be me?"

"Why? Well, because I suppose you do this – " he crossed the room with swaying steps and made his lashes flutter, "a lot more convincingly than I! I am at my wit's end, Kitty!I certainly shouldn't be asking that if you weren't my last resort. I may be able to take on the guise of an old hag, but this is beyond my capacities as an actor. We need a woman, for goodness' sake!"

"Yes…yes…" I mumbled anxiously. How could I refuse my help? He was desperate to make amends for his blunders in this case, of that I was sure. He wanted to solve it at all costs, and nothing would stop him, least of all the woman who loved him dearly.

"Very reasonable. We'll have to adjust your appearance, of course…"

"But Mr. 'olmes", I objected, "I can't – that is – wouldn't I be expected to wear very, um, revealing clothes? You know that is not possible. My skin…"

"Exactly!" Watson clung to the last straw. "She'd never be mistaken for one of those women if she did not at least wear a very low neckline. And that she cannot do."

Holmes measured me with a rapid glance; hand pressed to his mouth pensively. "You're right, probably. The sight of her scars no doubt would scare off all men. We'll see what we can do, however…" He went over to the mantle, returned with his jack knife and knelt down beside me, fussing with the fabric of my skirt. Watson and I exchanged a bewildered glance before Holmes boldly sprung to his feet, and an ugly tearing sound informed me that my skirt was now at best half of its former length.

"Well", Holmes pondered, running over his hand's work, "that's more to the point, is it not? As to her hair, we won't need to change that greatly, it already has a wonderfully cheap look. Add some face paint and glittering jewelry, and we shall have a perfect representative of the guild."

Tears of humiliation were burning in my eyes as I heard him describe me in that manner, and Watson also flinched, but the detective barely noticed. "Capital!" he rubbed his hands together with the familiar gleam of delight in his eyes. "She even resembles the most recent victim, at least as far as I can tell from old photographs; her face was smashed after all. The Ripper will feel attracted to her instantaneously."

"And her…protection?" Watson gulped.

"Oh, that." My husband negligently motioned his hand through the air. "No worries, that will be provided for. With only one bait to focus on, Kitty will be as safe as if she were sitting in her room at home."

"Mr. 'olmes!"

"What now?" he asked edgily. "What could still be wrong?"

I was so ashamed to say it that I could not look at him directly. "I'm scared…"

"Oh!" Watson ejaculated a cry of pity whilst Holmes growled impatiently. "No, you can't make her, Holmes! It's against all human rights! I won't allow…"

The detective passed a hand through his hair and sighed. "Look here, Kitty. I won't, and can't force you. If you wish to stand clear of the business, you have but to say so. If, however, you should decide to persevere, I promise you everything in our power shall be done to protect you from harm. Do you understand me?"

"Yes!" My lips trembled. I could not disappoint him!

"Excellent." He made me sit down with him on the sofa, and placed his hands on my arms. Again, the rarity of such intimacy made my blood boil and rise into my head. "Perhaps, if I were close to you on the scene of action, you'd feel more secure?"

I could not answer. I only nodded.

"Then I shall be", he said, softly stroking his thumb over my arm. "I shall hide in the chamber where you lead them, and I will ensure they cannot lay a finger on you, Ripper or no. You mustn't fear."

How could I resist? Watson snorted skeptically, implored me with glances, and chatted his comrade up with ceaseless loquacity, but it was to no avail. My decision had been made, though of course I had had no choice from the beginning.

oooOOOooo

17th August 1887

Big Ben struck six o'clock of the next day when I hurried out of my cab, told the driver to wait and crossed the road in which the _Cock&Horse _pub was situated. Several men were hanging out in the street to have a smoke or to get some fresh air, for the evening was hot and the pub extremely crowded. My eye wandered amongst the loafers, but in spite of our appointment, Porkey was nowhere to be seen. I furrowed my brow.

"Ey, Al! Al Whittaker!"

My American mate was resting against the house wall talking to a filthy lad with a mouth organ. At my call, he lazily raised his head and waved me to his side.

"Somepin the matter, gal?"

"I arranged ter meet 'ere wiv Porkey. Perhaps he is inside? 'ave ya seen 'im?"

"Not I. Didn't set eyes on him all day. Ya can't go in there!"

He stopped me as I tried to enter the pub. "Ernie'd pluck ya to bits. You've got order to stay away from the house, an' he's so surely today I'd rather take no risks."

"Well, would ya go in fer me an' enquire?"

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "As you will, though I tell ya it's pointless. I been settin' in there all afternoon, an' never seen so much as a hair of his."

"Hum…." I hesitated, discouraged. Porkey was always so concerned about me, his questions the other day had proven it once more. Perhaps he was the only one of my friends whose interest in my welfare was genuine, without any hidden self-interest. Now if I plunged myself into such a dangerous affair, I could not very well do so without my telling him. Or could I? After all, he had not deemed it necessary to keep our appointment…

"I told ya there ain't no point. Ya could try and come later…."

"No – that's not possible. Could ya give 'im something if 'e turns up?" I asked hurriedly, searching my handbag for a lead pencil and a piece of paper.

"Sure – if he turns up."

"Great…." Writing against the wall of the house, I composed a note to let Porkey know about our envisaged undertaking tonight. I would have preferred to tell him personally. Some words of good-luck would not have gone remiss. But well, it was not to be so. I signed the note and folded it several times before I passed to on to Al. "There. See that 'e gets it!"

"Sure thing, Pretty Kitty. See ya!" Al waved after me with the note, and I sped back across the road, where my cab was waiting.

**Hey, I'm so productive lately! Perhaps I've been stimulated by watching BBC Sherlock, the new episodes have finally been broadcast on German television. They're awesome! The only fault I can find with it is that Benedict Cumberbatch isn't Jeremy Brett, of course…. ;-)**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter fourty-five: The trap is set

17th August 1887

"_I've done so much, your wishes to fulfill/ _

_There's almost nothing left for me to do."_ _Goethe's Faust_

"What's that business, eh? What's going on?"

The man grasped for his tightly rolled umbrella in defence, but Sherlock Holmes had already clapped a pistol to his temple. "Desist, the game is up. Where have you concealed your weapons?"

The constable who had been hidden outside in the corridor, and who had come in quickly when voices had become loud, seized the nondescript London businessman and felt for blades or bludgeons.

"My what?" His victim cried in agony. "What the hell do you take me for? I am Harvey Simmons, Mr. Harvey Simmons of Borough High Street! Call my solicitor! I am an innocent, respectable, spotless…"

"He's clean", the constable's rough voice proclaimed, and Holmes sighed with visible frustration.

"How very fortunate. You may leave, sir, under the condition that you won't share tonight's experiences with anyone."

"This is intolerable!" The offended virtue straightened and brushed his hand over his double-breasted suit. "I've been lured into a trap! Swindle and treason! You shall hear from the barrister…"

"Mr. Harvey Simmons", Holmes retorted unpityingly, "I think you may consider yourself very leniently dealt with. Presumably your wife knows nothing about your habit of roaming the Whitechapel red-light district at late hours?" His eyes quickly darted at the golden wedding band, plainly to be seen on the other man's hand.

"I – oh well – go to the deuce!"

My deceived customer rushed out of the raunchy chamber, sending a last, cross glance at me. Nobody hindered him.

"Thank you, Kitty", Holmes quietly said, "Would you care for a break now? Or are you ready to return to your post?"

He spoke placidly, but I sensed his disappointment. Surely, we were only just beginning. But in order to give him hope, I assured him: "Oh, but I am not tired at all, Mr. 'olmes. I been sleepin' all afternoon…."

Which was only partly true. I had laid down to rest, but sleep had not come, what with my anxiety was almost self-evident. Holmes, however, was far from such considerations, he accepted my offer readily. "Very well, you may go back outside. Do you still have your knife?"

I shoved my hand beneath the high seam of my skirt to feel the blade which was secured at my thigh with a ribbon. "Yes, Mr. 'olmes."

"Good luck, then…"

oooOOOooo

It had started to rain, though the warmth of the day still lingered between the narrow rows of houses. I had retreated beneath the projecting roof of the shabby transient hotel. Since fall of darkness, it had become quite lonely. The road was swept empty.

No accidental pedestrian would have suspected the obscurity was alive: In shady front doors, behind rubbish bins and in the backyard of the opposite house my protectors waited, waited to emerge and come to my rescue at the least sign of danger. I was practically inviolable.

Only now and then, someone entered or exited the seedy bar on the ground floor of the dosshouse. One of the drunken patrons had sauntered away some yards with lurching steps, but he appeared to change his mind, and came back to run me over calculatingly. "'ow much?"

"Gonna cost a fiver", I said with the bored indifference peculiar to the women of the trade. "Ye can plank it down afterwards fer all that I care."

What a sorry waste of time. He was nothing but a drunken tramp; I did not need to be a detective to discern that. But my order had been to accept everyone, so I motioned him to follow me. The staircase was small and cramped, and we had to wait for a descending couple to pass us by. The drunkard did not seem to find the presence of many people in this place suspicious; he evidently was up to one thing only.

He started feeling me up as we ascended the stairs, and I had to swerve my hip briskly to prevent his noticing the knife. He was quite disgusting, and I urged him to make haste so that we might get into my chamber. With his hand halfway up my skirt, we tumbled into the room, and I sighed with heartfelt relief when the creep was drawn away and shoved against the wall.

"Raise your hands above your head and turn around slowly!"

oooOOOooo

Two men and a woman. They wanted me to be the fourth participant in their _partie_ _carré_.

"Come to the City with us! We have a room ready at the Halliday's private."

I stolidly shook my head. "Naw, it's either 'ere or nowhere!"

"Oh, do come!" The woman smiled at me temptingly. "We came out here expressly to find something young and pretty for Alexej, and he's taken such a fancy! I like you, too…"

"Naw, I'm sorry."

For Heaven's sake. One abyss after the other opened in front of my comparatively innocent eyes. And I had been ashamed of my more or less tame affairs in the past!

oooOOOooo

Inspector Lestrade had started to smoke when the first rain fell. He knew he was not supposed to, but from long experience he had learned to smoke in such a way as to conceal the gleam of the cigarette. From across the street, he watched Mrs. Holmes bargain with a group of young foreign people. He saw her shake her head repeatedly. Well, what did it matter if she refused them. The Ripper was unlikely to arrive with a party, after all.

On the whole, she did her part rather nicely; he had expected worse when first Holmes had broken the particulars of plan K to him. And how typical for Holmes to use his own wife as bait. If it could help to arrest the criminal, he probably would sever his right hand and learn to write with the left. Capital man, Mr. Holmes!

oooOOOooo

Dr. Watson was not quite easy in his mind about having stayed at home. His wife had told him a hundred times that it was perfectly alright if he had work to do, but Watson felt his thoughts constantly wandering into the direction of Whitechapel, until he found he could get no work done at all. Strangely enough, he did not feel as though he had abandoned Holmes, but rather Kitty. Was it right to expect this of her? Should he not have insisted, protested against her exposure with more vigour?

Usually his word had some weight with Holmes, but this time, his companion had seemed so very obdurate. And Kitty, poor thing, was of course much too lovelorn to refuse her services. Watson ruminatively stroked his moustache. She certainly was devoted…he had always suspected Holmes had a stronger hold over her than could be healthy. Her repeated visits to his practice were there to prove it, her exaggerated anxiety, her sudden, and ardent wish for a child…

Dr. Watson took Kitty's health record out of his drawer and glanced over it, shaking his head worriedly.

oooOOOooo

Upon himself, Sherlock Holmes had imposed no smoking restriction. Where he stood, wedged between door and wall of the ramshackle room, nobody could see him anyway, and if he heard steps approaching, he could still drop the cigarette and step on it. In addition, he desired to fumigate the musky, smelly atmosphere of cheap liquor, destitution and purchasable love. Kitty might well have looked disgusted when she had come in with her latest customer, but the question still remained whether he was not more so. After all, Kitty was used to such surroundings, at least he imagined that.

He briefly wondered whether she was quite safe out there. It had been quite a while since her last appearance. But worries were ridiculously redundant. He had provided well for her safety. Lestrade and his people would not fail her in the moment of need. Or would they?

Drawing on his cigarette, he asked himself whether he had not done a very irresponsible thing. The risk was there, after all…and the Ripper certainly was a dangerous adversary. But how irrational, he had not felt irresponsible when trying to hire those women, so why should it be different in Kitty's case? She had volunteered, and when all was said and done, he _was_ paying her. There were business relations between them, and probably Kitty had recalled that, and, since she was a decent person, seized the opportunity to be of use to him. The first time that she was, really. He had the right to expect some return for his sacrifices!

oooOOOooo

Inspector Lestrade frowned. Something was not going according to plan. The note in his hands had been delivered five minutes ago by a runner, and still he could not make up his mind to act. He re-read it once more before the drizzling rain had quite macerated the paper.

_Lestrade, _

_Wrong place, wrong time!_

_Our presence is required elsewhere. Please gather your men and drive to 55, Cadogan Street in Pimlico. We shall meet there in approximately one hour. Leave Kitty where she is, I shall fetch her. Don't lose time!_

_Holmes_

There was something positively off about the letter, though the inspector could not lay his finger on it. If Holmes had changed his plans, why had he not let him know earlier? Then of course, the detective rarely confided all of his intentions to anyone, though this time, Lestrade thought angrily, he had seemed to show his full hand to his cooperators. How was it the exasperating man always needed to keep an ace up his sleeve? He appeared to take delight in the surprise and confusion of his allies.

Lestrade glanced over at Mrs. Holmes, irresolutely rocking on the tips of his toes. He had hoped to hesitate long enough for Holmes to come out of the house and take his wife away. The idea of leaving her unguarded was not to his liking. On the other hand, Holmes' instructions were very clear, and he had already disobeyed them by wasting time uselessly. Probably there was no use in waiting any longer.

He left his cover and put a whistle to his lips. At his signal, the dark shadows of men emerged from their various hideouts and joined him in the corner of the street.

oooOOOooo

By this time, Holmes had arrived at the conclusion that he would be sorry if Kitty came to harm. She was an agreeable, sweet-tempered girl; and fond of him as far as he could tell. He wished her all the best, naturally….on the other hand….

For a frightful instant he contemplated the possibility of widowerhood. If there were a mistake tonight, he would be rid of her, free, free to try again, to plant his seed into more fertile, possibly more worthy soil…but no, this was terrible, a way of thinking peculiar to a lesser breed of men.

He had chosen her, foolishly, before he ever knew whether she would suit his purpose, and now he would stick with her. It would have been wiser to impregnate her before taking the vows. Now there was no honourable way out – even if she exercised a bad influence over him. And that she did, he felt it more distinctly each day.

She was a source of irritation, a distraction. More than once had he lately caught his thoughts going strange, illegitimate ways when she was near, in a fashion he neither comprehended nor welcomed. Clearly his routine was in the process of being disrupted…but that was out of the question.

Kitty was no adequate object of his contemplation, her likable, but frivolous nature was the very opposite to the exalted ideal of human perfection to which he aspired. And how was he supposed to proceed on this path with the very incarnation of worldliness, of, he cringed at the thought, _carnality_ constantly under his nose?

oooOOOooo

I had witnessed the withdrawal of the police with growing discomfort. What was the meaning of it? Holmes had vouched for my protection, and yet there they were, openly surrendering their posts and preparing for departure. I wondered whether I should just cross over to them and ask what this was all about, but I thought better of it. My order was strict. I was to remain on the spot and not to betray my identity. Technically, I did not even _know_ Lestrade and his men…

Some minutes passed during which I observed my guardians leave definitely. It was now more lonely and silent in the street than ever. Even the rain had ceased. One would have heard a pin dropping down. The air had cooled off, and I started to shiver in my short frock. Perhaps I just ought to step up to the chamber and ask Holmes for an explanation? Provided he still was up there, of course.

Uneasily, I pricked up my ears. There were steps on the pavement. Someone was coming. Oh dear, not a customer, not now! I did not know what to do, whether to accept him or not. It was unfair of Lestrade to leave me behind in this uncertainty! I watched the man advance in the condensing fog with misgivings, until he was quite close. Then I laughed out loud in my relief. "You! What are you doing 'ere!"

"Very sorry not to tell ya, gal. Your Mister Holmes told me not to. Said it'd distract ya from yer job to know yer mates were around."

"'e appointed ya ter guard me?" I could scarcely believe it. Then again, Holmes had sometimes availed himself of the services of my friends in the past.

"That's right. But we mustn't be tardy, it ain't comfy hereabouts in the mist. Mister Holmes is on his way to Pimlico, seems like the murderer has struck there. Told me to take ya and bring ya home."

"Did 'e, now?" I was not amused to learn I had been excluded from the course of events. Why had Holmes not consulted me before taking his leave? Why had he not taken me with him to Pimlico?

"Now hurry up, Pretty Kitty. I git a hansom cab a-waitin' jus' acrost the street. Let's get going…"

I obediently laid my hand into his, and together we walked down the row. "Did me note reach Porkey, by the way?"

"Sure did. Porkey's jus' around the corner. We'll see him in passing…"

"Oh, let us pick 'im up, there ain't nothing more ter do fer ya here. We could drop into a pub – don' t 'ave ter be Ernie's place – an' 'ave something warm an' fortifying ter drink."

"Jolly good idear. Here we are, gal."

And indeed, there was a little hansom parking by the road. He opened the door for me and I got in, giggling at his mock courtesy. "Gotta be the first time I'm drivin' in a private cab. An' the first time I'm bein' driven by a mate."

I rubbed my hands over my thighs, covered in goose-bumps, and stooped to reach for the blanket beneath the seat. Then there was a heavy blow on the back of my head and I knew no more.

**Cockney:**

**To plank down – to pay**

**Ouf…anyone still like Holmes?**

**I think it gets quite clear here that he projects his own cranky ideas on Kitty. We may agree that she's not the "incarnation of worldliness and carnality" just because she's the only notch in Holmes' bedpost! Still some way to go for the ungrateful git.**

**Next chapter's going to be long and important…I think.**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	46. Chapter 46

Chapter fourty-six: Jack the Ripper

18th August 1887

"_I feel my heart is thine and to the uttermost/_

_Thou must! Thou must! Though my life be at cost!" Goethe's Faust_

It was shortly after midnight when Holmes arrived at the Yard. He was foaming.

"What were you thinking, Lestrade? I told you not to leave your post on any account! You've ruined a fair night's work."

The Inspector was no less enraged. "If the night has been all for naught, it is your fault entirely, Mr. Holmes! This wouldn't have happened if it hadn't been for your ridiculous note. And me moving all my men to Pimlico for nothing! Naturally I presumed at least a murder had occurred there, but when we arrived, nobody knew what we were talking about! Pretty mortifying!"

"My – note?" The detective stared at him so icily Lestrade seemed to sink some inches into the floor. "What note? What do you mean?"

"Why, the note you sent me via that runner!"

"Runner", Holmes repeated mechanically.

"Yes, the dirty young rascal with the mouth organ! I was all against removing the men, but in that note you said expressly…"

But the other man had ceased to listen. He passed by Lestrade's desk uneasily, regarding his finger nails as he spoke with forced equanimity: "And – Kitty? I assume you took her away, too?"

When the Inspector did not answer immediately and glanced at the floor bashfully, the detective flared up with uncontrollable ire: "For goodness' sake, man! Don't tell me you have left her in the street, unguarded and unprotected!"

"You cannot hold me responsible", Lestrade returned with a whiny sound to his words. "I have only acted according to the directions in your note – "

"I – never – sent – a note, Inspector!" Holmes hissed in high dudgeon. "How could you be such a fool and be taken in by so simple a ruse! You with your astuteness, your many years of experience! Where is Kitty now, eh? Have you spoken to her? Have you sent her home?"

Lestrade shook his head guiltily. Holmes inhaled deeply and pressed his hands to his temples. "I shall drive to Baker Street", he muttered indistinctly. "I shall drive there at once, and Lord have mercy on your soul if I don't find her there!"

But at the very moment he wanted to sweep out of the office, a Scotland Yard courier entered hurriedly. "Inspector Lestrade? A letter has been delivered for Mr. Sherlock Holmes…"

oooOOOooo

According to my estimation, it was some hours later when I regained consciousness. Everything around me took shape very slowly, but I almost immediately realized I had been shackled. My wrists were secured to something round, hard and cold – a water pipe. It ran along the wall only a few inches or so, and then ended in the wall again, just at the corner of the room.

The pipe was too high up the wall for me to sit on the stone floor, so that I was slumped against the wall rather than really standing on my feet. My head was numb from the blow. All my limbs ached terribly as I tried to straighten myself, and especially my wrists felt as though they were on the point of snapping. With rising panic, I tried to free myself, but the resulting clacking and rattling sound told me that handcuffs had been used to enfetter me to the pipe.

"Let me outta 'ere!" I yelled into the cold, gloomy room. "Help me! Help!"

But only the echo of my own voice answered my cries. I appeared to be in a sort of cellar, I could distinguish all kinds of gadgetry and lumber in the twilight from the two small windows, high up in the wall. How had I come here? What had happened? In a quick succession of pictures, the events of the night flashed my memory: The street – my face reflected in the window pane, thickly made up with white powder, rouge and lipstick – the police had left – and then –

Somewhere in the cellar, a door jangled. My back pressed against the wall, I felt a strong urge to scream again, but was so frightened that I did not even dare to breathe too loudly, with the preposterous, tiny hope that he would not find me at the back of my head….

oooOOOooo

"My dear chap! I came as soon as I heard it."

The new day was dawning when Watson hurried into Holmes' room. He was a little disheveled from lack of sleep, having virtually worked all night, and from soothing Mrs. Hudson, who had alternatingly coughed and sobbed. Finally he had succeeded in persuading her to return to bed and allow him to inject a sedative. However, Watson doubted that these simple remedies would be enough in the case of his friend. His wife probably in jeopardy, and through his fault, too! The poor man had to be devastated.

Cautiously, the doctor approached the figure sitting by the fireplace, and over steepled fingers gazing into the empty hearth.

"It is on the sideboard, Watson."

He did not turn around, he never even budged. Watson hesitated a moment before crossing over to the sideboard and picking up the note, written with a bad hand on cheap yellow slip of paper.

After reading, Watson slowly put it down again. This was terrible. "He doesn't give us an awful lot of time", he said as calmly as possible.

"Hardly any time. He doesn't want us to align our thoughts, to devise a rescue plan…"

"You won't be able to bring police", Watson observed, consulting the note again. "The rogue is quite distinct about what he would do if you tried that." He sighed, putting a reassuring hand on his companion's shoulder. "I am so, so awfully sorry for you, my boy…"

Holmes briefly took his cold pipe out of his mouth as if he wanted to say something, then he only nodded his appreciation and put it back between his lips. There were a few moments during which only the clock on the mantle was to be heard, ticking away precious time.

Eventually, Watson straightened himself. "However, we must act, must take precautions. Do you still have that pistol Lestrade gave you for tonight? You had better take that…perhaps you could conceal it on your person, somehow…"

Again Holmes took his pipe out of his mouth as he drew up his knees to the chin, into a kind of defensive stance. "I have no mind of going."

oooOOOooo

"No", I wept frantically when his face was quite close to mine and a mistake was impossible. "No, no."

"Ah, but why not, Pretty Kitty? It was me all along. If ya'd jus' bother to cast back your mind…"

I watched Al Whittaker's narrow, bearded face with horror and loathing. Never had I been so deceived. Straining against my bonds, I received another blow on the head which nearly hit home at the spot which was already beating like a hammer. I groaned with pain.

"I told ya to think. Did your clever husband never teach ya how to do that?" With a crooked smile, he motioned his head so close to mine that our faces almost touched, and then suddenly jerked it forwards to hit my forehead brutally. "Think!"

Tears spurting into my eyes, I stared at him unbelievingly. Yes, the first Ripper murder had occurred in April, about two weeks after Al's arrival in London. And yet it was absurd – wasn't the truth – couldn't be –

"I'll help ya memory. After all, ya helped me too. Without your idiotic babble at the pub, I wouldn't have ya here as I do now, so it's only fair ter give ya some information in return."

Very much at his ease, he took out an American brand cigarette and placed it between his lips, hands searching for a match. "It was real jolly to hear all your dim-witted speculations about my _motive_. Who says I need one? I jus' like to kill, it's as easy as that."

"If it's you who killed these women, whyn't ya kill me?" I exclaimed breathlessly, only half aware how stupid my words were.

"You?" He gave a short, coarse laugh. "Of course I'll kill ya, no worries. But not right now. Not before you've served your purpose."

The match scratched over the box, and as he raised the small flame to his face, I shuddered to see it so distinctly, a demonic mask under a human guise.

"M-my purpose?" I stammered. My memory was working full speeds. I seemed to hear Lestrade's voice, saying: _"It is now almost certain the Ripper must be a foreigner"_, and, more distantly, Ernie's, declaring: _"Did ya know 'e started as a butcher's boy? All very modest in the beginning…" _But how could I have traced the entire picture from these few puzzle pieces?

"Your purpose, yes. Like I said, I fancy a nice li'lle murder. A startled shriek, a clean cut, the warm blood spilling over my hands…always great fun." He chuckled, and I stared at him, terrified. Why had my good judgement, my knowledge of human nature deserted me when I would have needed it so urgently? With his pale face, framed by black sideburns that ended in a pointy beard, the man before me resembled the devil himself.

"But…I must say I don't like it when my fun is disturbed by the meddling of English wise guys. No, I don't like it at all. Rather uncomfy your Mister Holmes has gotten during my London holiday. You know…" he shrugged his shoulders wistfully, "I came here with the hope a findin' a lot a women nobody'd ask questions about – but all in all, perhaps I was better off in the States. Policemen ain't so plentiful thereabouts, an' it's easier to have a corpse disappear on a lonely farm…yeah it was certainly easier, even so I must say I enjoy the game more here in the City, the great City that's scairt of one single man…."

"You blackguard!" I shouted, trying to kick at him as my fear was replaced with simmering rage, but he only laughed. "There you been fakin' the dear pal for us, you been livin' un'er Ernie's roof, an' all the time - !"

"Ah, I know…" He casually extinguished his cigarette against my defenceless forearm. The flesh on the lower side was soft and susceptible, and the white-hot pain made me scream even louder than before as the smell of burned tissue rose to my nostrils. "I been nasty to these worthy old chaps. But the best is yet to come - only that they'll never learn it was me who slayed their sweet li'le redhead. Now don't get conceited, you won't have been the most delectable of my victims. But I need ya…an' afterwards, I can't jus' let ya run, you see. Why should I?"

One thing became clear to me. As long as I could keep him talking, I would live, and if there were something he needed me for, perhaps I could use that to my advantage. Therefore, I asked: "What d'ye want from me?"

"Oh, stupid Pretty Kitty. It's not _you_ I want naturally; it's your ingenious Mister Holmes. Didn't I mention he was makin' himself a nuisance to me? He must be removed, an' what better way to do so than kidnap his woman? I sent a letter…told him where you are…promised you'd live if he made an appearance till noon time."

I started kicking more violently as I heard this. "Don't you dare! Don't you lay one finger on him!" Tears and slime were flowing down my face and mingling with my make-up, but I was unable to wipe it off. My whole being, feeling and thinking were focused on Al's intended victim. I had to prevent it – do anything!

"Keep me hostage, do!" I pleaded, ceasing to struggle against my restrictions. "As long as ya will, an' I swear Holmes'll get into yer way no more…."

Again he laughed his coarse, dirty laughter, strangely discordant with the subtle malice of his Mephistophelian eyebrows. "I said I want him outta the way, an' I meant it. Ain't it all very fateful? You were intended as bait – an' bait you shall be! I been planning it for so long…ever sence he was commissioned with the case. I been on the look-out for an opportunity to catch ya alone – off guard – I tried to anesthetize ya. Several times I could persuade ya to drink what I gave ya, but ne'er enough for ya to lose consciousness."

More pictures and snippets of conversations coursed my mind, the liquor Al had given me in his room…but then Ernie had come looking for me and spoilt his chance. Nothing had been effected but a little dizziness on my part, ascribed to a momentary disposition. Then the other day – at the pub – he must have dropped something into my ale. I recalled his offer to escort me home – luckily I had refused – and the next morning, sickness again, this time attributed to the quality of Ernie's booze. And this week, Porkey's sudden appearance in the dark alleyway had probably saved my life….but he would not come in handy again, not this time.

"Ye're crazy", I cried out, "ye're insane!"

oooOOOooo

"You don't…." Watson, who had just set out to look for the pistol or some other kind of suitable weapon, froze in his motion.

"No, I don't. I very much regret I cannot, but you saw the villain's letter, so you must have understood his scheme. It's too dangerous! Since I am not allowed an escort or any kind of security at the negotiation, it'd be perfectly foolhardy to go there and place myself at that fellow's mercy entirely!"

"But Kitty!" Watson's voice almost overturned. "What about her?"

Finally, Holmes deigned to turn around in his seat, pipe still in his hand. "I told you I very much regret it, but I see no possibility! She's beyond our reach. How could we hope to rescue her? Only in exchange for my person, and we both can divine the end of that!"

"But if you don't go, Kitty's bound to die in your stead!"

"Oh, I'm not so sure. In what way could Kitty's death benefit the scoundrel?"

Watson would not believe his ears. "This is the Ripper we're talking about, Holmes! He has killed half a dozen of women without asking for a reason!"

His companion superciliously raised his eyebrows. "You can hardly compare the situations. Those women were wholly oblivious to their fate; they were not prepared and carried no weapons. Now Kitty knows exactly who she's dealing with, and she has got a knife. She's strong, she's smart. Perhaps she'll be able to…"

"You cannot mean what you say!" Watson stared at his long-time friend, completely aghast. "Holmes, do you realize your _wife_" – he particularly stressed the word – "is in this situation merely because you made her pitch herself into danger on your behalf?"

When Holmes did not give a reply, Watson agitatedly started walking the rug, hands wildly gesticulating in his despair. "For Heaven's sake! Where is your manliness Holmes; where is your fighting spirit? If I didn't know you better, if I hadn't been saved through your courage time and time again, I now should call you a coward! Yes, a coward! If anyone could find a way to wrench Kitty from the claws of this beast, it would certainly be you. Why don't you at least make an attempt! You have been in mortal danger for lesser reasons."

Holmes got up briskly and turned his back on his companion. "My good doctor, in my view it is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you. Since, however, you have already struck your favoured dire tone of harangue I really think we can safely desist from a continuation to this amiable discussion."

"So you just let her die?" Watson roared, pointing his finger at the window as though the object of their argument were to be seen from there. "This is your wife being held captive out there, man! This is about Kitty! You can't just abandon her, you love her and – "

At this moment, Holmes sharply turned around again and his eyes bored into Watson's with the speed of light and the force to set a whole world crumbling. The distinguished gentleman's mouth gaped open as things started to fall into place.

"You don't", he whispered, "You don't! You've lied to me! Oh, this is abominable, Holmes!"

The other man did not move a muscle. He just stood there and watched his friend comprehend. There still was disbelief written all over Watson's features, but deep down inside, he began to understand. A darkened bedroom presented itself to his mind's eye; the smell of carnations filled his nostrils. Lyons – and Holmes' depression –

"You did it for progeny. Didn't you!" Watson's indignation made him breathe faster, his respiration came in short, shallow draughts and his nostrils flared. "I should have known it. You did it to have a child. And I imagined you had discovered your heart!"

Holmes had, as to this moment, seemed perfectly unapologetic, but at these words he made a sudden gesture. "Watson –"

"No!" The doctor flinched, his arm half raised in defence as if warding off an infective contact. "Do not dare to approach me! You are heartless and selfish to the core. So I've always known you to be, but never, never I would have thought you such a – such a monster!"

The pain was now evident on Holmes' thin face, usually so unaffected and debonair. It would have made Watson's heart bleed with compassion in any different context, but now he sensed distaste, only distaste. "Kitty never deserved such treatment. Oh god, the poor child! Has she not suffered enough in the past? Did she need you to come into her life and spoil it entirely?"

Holmes gasped. This he could not stand for. "Life, what life? She had no life to speak of when I held out my hand to her and picked her off the gutter! I rescued her from experiencing the very existence she simulated tonight! Only since our marriage has she again had a life, and if it were to end today, I should merely be guilty of having prolonged it a little!"

Heavily breathing, their hands clenched to fists, he two men were standing opposite to each other. Never had they let down their guard so far in each other's presence.

"So", Watson said between his teeth, "She has become dispensable, hasn't she? Not reproducing fast enough for you liking, she may as well be killed off in your stead, may she not? Insignificant little Kitty Winter may die, but the great Sherlock Holmes shall live on!"

"I – I haven't wished for her to die…."

"Enough!" Watson spat. "This is unacceptable. Never have I been so sorely disappointed! I've looked up to you, Holmes! Regarded you as a benefactor of mankind, as the best and wisest man I've ever known! I have made you the ideal of my life, considered it my finest ambition to become only half as good a man – and now to discover I haven't known your true self at all!"

There fell a brief silence. Holmes folded his hands on his back, observing the tips of his boots. "I am… sorry I did not live up to your expectations of me."

"No, indeed not!" Watson glowered at him irreconcilably. "The best you can now do is make reparation for the shameful way you've been using this innocent girl. Will you go and risk your life for her; and win back some little bit of your human virtue?"

"I am sorry", Sherlock Holmes repeated, his eyes still cast down to the floor.

"Then this has been my last word to you." Watson turned to walk away, but before he could reach the door, a dry, tortured sound had escaped Holmes' throat. "Don't leave Watson – I cannot do without you!"

"Without me?" The doctor revolved furiously. "Without _me_?" He stomped his foot to the floor. "Do not try to pretend now that you have a heart! You've lost your claim to this human attribute! You, who have thrown away Kitty's devoted love without a second glance…."

Now that Watson's immediate departure had been averted, Holmes again felt bold enough to defend himself. "Nonsense, Watson. Kitty is a good girl, but she does not care about me any more than I do about her. That was well understood when we reached our agreement…"

"But these things can change!" Watson interrupted. "Kitty has long started to develop more profound sentiments for you, I am certain – "

"Not that I would have noticed."

"Yes, because you never even took the trouble of getting to know her properly!"

Holmes chuckled; he had recovered quickly and was his superior old self again. "Believe me doctor, I know all there is to know about Kitty, and it's not that much altogether."

"Is that so?" Watson narrowed his eyes. "Then you must know, of course, that since you return from Brighton, Kitty has been in my practice five times?"

"No, she didn't tell me." He seemed mildly surprised. "Whatever for?"

"Pregnancy tests, Holmes", Watson drawled. "She was downright obsessed with the idea of getting pregnant. Now don't tell me she longs for the child of a man she does not care for in the least!"

The detective looked a little taken aback. "I did not know that…"

"I tell you that you know nothing, Holmes! And one more thing." Watson's eyes meanwhile were shooting daggers at the man he had used to admire. "I could not sleep very well last night and tried to get some work done in advance. Very successful I was not, but at least I got to conduct the latest test series in my laboratory. Oh yes, Holmes", and he nodded grimly as the other man's pupils dilated slightly, "Kitty is expecting a child."

**Alas! A nice little double bind for Holmes. He doesn't feel like risking his safety for Kitty, but is afraid to lose Watson whom he really cares for (no gayness implied!). What will he do now? Is the news of the child going to make any difference?**

**I loved writing angry Watson ;-) It was kind of an outlet for my pent up annoyance with our "hero". **

**Love, Mrs.F**


	47. Chapter 47

Chapter fourty-seven: Through Fire and Water

18th August 1887

"_It's he! It's he! Where's all my misery?/_

_And where the anguish of the goal? The chain?/_

_It's you! You've come to save me! I am saved!"_

By the time I come to speak of now, a gag had been added to my general state of utter helplessness. I had therefore absolutely no chance to give my savior a word of warning when he came – if he should come. Unswerving certainty was not exactly what I felt as hours passed by in the shady, cold basement room. Judging from the light behind the windows, noon was not so very far away, and still no sign of him. But I felt only relief.

For what would come of any attempt to release me! Though with my neck grown stiff, I could not look sideways to behold my enemy, I still sensed his presence as he crouched in a gloomy nook, biding his time. If Holmes should dare to make an appearance, he would be as good as lost.

In order to relieve my physical pain and the dread of certain death, I pictured the consoling sight of his face in the obscurity, the high noble forehead, the hardy arch of his brow, mimicked by his skeptically twisted mouth, the dark arcane glint of his irises. He was as wonderful a man as I had ever met and I would well prefer dying a hundred times to having him get into peril. So while my heart was palpitating with horrible apprehensions, I hoped with all my soul that he would not come to liberate me and expose himself to the deathly menace that was my assumed chum Al Whittaker.

Time ticked on. I was cold and aching and nauseous with hunger. Now and then I shrank against the wall because I thought I had heard Whittaker move in the dark recesses of the room, but I was deceived by the rustling of mice along the baseboard or the gurgling of water in the pipe. My strength declined gradually, I felt I would not be able to keep myself upright for much longer. The burning red circles around my wrists sought to evade contact with the handcuffs, but the more my legs tired, the more I was dangling from where they shackled me to the pipe. I lacked the will to remain on the tips of my toes.

My execution could now not be far off. Every moment Whittaker might decide that nobody would come to my rescue, he might leave his hiding place, undo my restrains and – there!

I heard steps, reverberant, hurried steps somewhere beyond the cellar door. Whittaker must have heard them too, I could hear him inhale sharply and straighten his body somewhere in the duskiness. Whoever it was that come for me, he was sure to receive a blow on his head, equally nasty to the one that had been administered to the back of mine. Desperately I rebelled against once more against the bondage applied to me, simultaneously trying to get rid of the filthy rag that had been stuffed into my mouth.

The steps were now very close. They halted briefly before the cellar door creaked. Then – "Kitty?" I knew him by his voice, but, deprived as I was of the faculty of speech, there was no way for me to warn him, to tell him to go away. All I succeeded in producing was a sequence of inarticulate sounds as his tall frame defined against the light from the high up cellar windows. "Kitty, is that you?"

He took one, two hasty steps towards me and reached out to take my skull between his long-fingered hands. "Thank Goodness. Are you alright? He – hurt you, didn't he?" His hand moved over my crane, finding the great bulge at the back of my head and felt it carefully. "Now listen – do not worry, I shall have you out of here in a minute…."

He did not heed my panic dilated pupils, my fierce attempts to pronounce words. A second silhouette was defining against the sparse light, a silhouette slowly raising its arm, approaching inexorably. But Mr. Holmes could not see it; he was too absorbed in examining the damage that had been done to me. I floundered and jiggled wildly at the water pipe, but still it was almost too late when he finally plucked the rag out of my mouth, the very same moment that the shadow behind his back aimed at a stroke with some large, blunt object.

"Behind ya, Mr.'olmes!" I squeaked frantically, and he ducked and dived away just in time to avoid the vicious blow which came down on thin air.

With a pound, Whittaker dropped the log he had been holding, and aimed to a tiger's leap in order to reach and seize me, but Holmes quickly stepped between us again and grasped the other man's arm, trying to twist it on his back. Whittaker cursed under his breath, struggling ferociously, until with his left he achieved an unexpected, but undoubtedly very painful score on Holmes' prominent raptor's nose.

Stunned by the suddenness of the impact, Holmes gasped, raising his both hands to his face protectively, which gave his attacker an opportunity to shove him into the wall, trying for a further stroke, but the detective had regained his alertness and elbowed the opponent's visage in retaliation.

With a loud howl, Whittaker stumbled backwards; however, when Holmes rushed upon him, he dastardly punched him in the pit of his stomach. I yelled as if the pain had been mine. Trying to free myself more resolutely than ever, I realized with anguish that both our lives depended on the somewhat incalculable factor of Holmes' physical strength and agility, which were developed well enough, but his adversary was not to be underestimated.

He was smaller, yes, but thereby also more lithe and deft and slippery as a fish. Both men now were down on the floor, with their bare hands striving to maintain predominance, wholly oblivious to the multitude of weapons the cellar gadgetry offered. It was maddening to think of it while standing apart, of less use than the smallest of children. All that was left to me were the use of my eyes and mouth, and I constantly squealed: "Watch out, Mr. 'olmes!" at the highest pitch.

Whittaker had now clutched the neck through which pulsed the life most precious to me, and he choked without pity. My cries filled the room from floor to ceiling, and I thought they had to be heard for miles and miles off. Holmes' pale face had turned veritably livid now, when with a sudden jerk of his knee he shook off the man and was on his feet before him. Panting angrily, Whittaker locked his arm around him, trying to disable his motion, but a sequence of precisely timed kicks caused him to let go and with a final fisticuff he was knocked out.

I gasped my relief and felt as though I wanted to cry, but my eyes were dry and feverish as Holmes made his way between gardening implements and empty crates, still breathing heavily. "Oh, Mr. 'olmes…."

"Baritsu", he said earnestly. "It still pays. Do you have other injuries?"

"O-only superficial 'uns" I stammered, lightheaded from fatigue and his almost unbearable proximity. Again, he swiftly trailed his fingers over the back of my head, felt my pulse and closely peered into my eyes.

"Accelerated", he stated quite superfluously, "dilated. Perhaps a mild concussion, I really can't tell by this light. Might be just the shock and exhaustion."

His concern dazed me, took my breath away. Could it really be true he cared so much for me? What else could be indicated by such anxiety about my state? Trembling all over, I commenced sobbing drily, hysterically. "C-can ya please get me outta 'ere, Mr. 'olmes? P-please, get me out!"

Only now I became aware of how my nerves were wholly overwrought. The long hours of vigil, the agony and terror had taken their toll on me. Apparently, I was not of the tough stock I would have thought I was.

"There, there." His murmur was almost too deep to catch the word as he passed a soothing hand over my hair. "In a moment's time…."

"In a moment's time, she'll be dead!" A cold voice snarled, filled with spite. My mind spun, I only sensed the still colder blade against my throat. Neither of us had realized Al's speedy recovery, nor had we reckoned on it. Holmes hesitated. Slowly he raised his hands into the air.

"Good." Whittaker sneered, though his face was still covered in blood from the previous fight. "Now, lower your hands an' stand with your back against the wall. Quite close to Pretty Kitty. Put your arms around her. Ain't that nice! Closer still, I want to finish both o' ya off with one single slash." The long, broad blade gently moved across my skin until its far end touched Holmes' throat also.

"Ain't it nice", Whittaker repeated, "like a piece o' art. I think I shall make a still life from your entrails afterwards, whatcha think? Perhaps in the shape o' a great heart…..or would ya prefer it to be a magnifying glass?"

There, I thought, close to the edge of oblivion, that's it then. Thankfully it'll be over in an instant…I felt Holmes standing next to me against the wall, his arms wrapped around my waist as Whittaker had demanded.

"Would you permit one last question?" I heard him say calmly.

"If it don't take too long", Whittaker cooed. "My fingers are itching to getta move."

Apparently, also Holmes' fingers itched to get a move. His hands had quite inconspicuously disengaged themselves, one of them wandering down to my thigh, just to move upwards again, stealthily, until it disappeared beneath my skirt. I felt I would faint every moment and my last clear thought was: What a strange moment to do this….

"Did you seriously think you could win?"

I had indeed missed a beat, but was wide awake when the knife, my knife, flashed through the air and Whittaker, with a feral roar, dropped his weapon. I heard it slither across the floor into the corner whither Holmes had kicked it, and I saw blood dripping from the knife he held in his own hand. But the rascal had not been wounded fatally. Holding his arm on which a deep cut gaped, he retreated promptly, swore at us in mindless rage and stormed out of the cellar. It was too dark to see everything, but I quite distinctly heard him turn the key in the lock.

"Quickly now!"

Holmes hurled the knife to the floor, rushed at the far end of the room and measured the height of the windows with his eyes. "It is rather steep, but with some of those crates we should be able to make it. Does the fellow have any fire arms?"

"I think not. The knife seems ter be 'is preferred weapon."

"Splendid. However, he'll return shortly, or I'm much mistaken." He started to stack the empty crates beneath the window, and awful apprehensions filled my mind.

"Don't leave me 'ere!" I cried, panic-stricken.

"Kitty!" he spit angrily. "Just trust me!"

"B-but what are we going ter do about me derbies?"

"Don't concern yourself; I shall get them undone with one of your hairpins. It won't take long."

The stack he had built now reached up almost as high as the window, and with the end of the last crate, he smashed the pane into a thousand splinters. The stack swayed precariously.

"Careful now!" I piped anxiously. A broken leg was about the only handicap we were still in want of. But he had climbed down quickly and steadied the wobbly construct with some additional headstones. So busy was he that he did not at first pay attention to my diffident remarks about a suspicious smell. Only the full power of my lungs made him prick up his ears: "Mr. 'olmes! 'e got cuts!"

The smell was now too strong to leave room for any doubts. In addition, thick plumes of smoke started to waft from beneath the door and began to veil our already limited vision. "'e's smokin' us out!"

He was by my side within the twinkling of an eye. Picking a hair-pin out of my slovenly mane, he swiftly examined the mechanism of my fetters, which was difficult due to the high point where they had been applied to the pipe, and to the condensing fume which made both of us cough. Already the crackling of flames could be heard beyond the door; it would not last long now. The spread of the fire would be not insignificantly helped by the vivid draft from the open window.

Holmes groaned exasperatedly under the stress. "I won't get it done like that in time!"

"Then leave!" I called through the smoke. "Forget all I said, jus' _go_!"

"I won't." He tossed the pin to the floor and abruptly revolved, scanning the room or what was still to be seen of it. The usual gardening equipment was standing about, a rake, a spade, hedge trimmers, a saw and – an axe.

"No – no, please!" I wept as he lifted the terrifying implement and re-approached me with a look of determination on his face. Breathing became gradually more difficult, but I felt I would want my lungs to smother rather than an axe to take off my hands. Which was not at all that unlikely. The length of the pipe I was shackled to was short, and the axe large and cloddish, meant to split large logs of wood and not to hit the right spot in what was an extremely confined space. "No, don't do it!"

I shrank as much to the right side as possible and squeezed my eyes shut. Thus, I only heard the deafening sound of the demolition of the pipe, and felt the thick water jet that spurted against the side of my head like the slap from a large and powerful hand. I puffed and blinked against the jet. Never would I have believed so much water could be running in one single pipe. At any rate, everything pointed to my hands still being where they belonged. Holmes, drenched already, grabbed them roughly and pulled them to the left, so that the handcuffs slid over the dead end of the splintered pipe. Though the other ends were still attached to my wrists, I was free.

"Come on, hurry!" Holmes coughed, seizing my stiff, aching arms and dragging me with him. For a confused moment, I had thought the emergence of the water might be our salvation, since it had come with such a power and abundance. The black smoke filling the room, however, spoke all too clearly of the might of the fire that threatened to break through the door, and I comprehended Holmes and I would die that very moment, provided the smoke did not suffocate us beforehand.

The room was rather small in proportion to its height, and already the water covered the floor up to our ankles, hindering our flight rather than aiding it. Holmes pushed aside floating crates as he waded towards the far wall, never letting go of my hand as I followed in his wake. It was difficult to orientate, and the smoke almost strangled me. The only thing I could see was the hand that held mine, strenuously giving lead.

"Mr. 'olmes…" Red dots started to dance in front of my eyes, I gasped for air.

"Kitty!" His voice sounded acerbically sharp. "Don't give up now, we nearly made it!"

With a last effort, I opened my burning eyes and saw him clamber up the first two crates reaching out for my hand, and with what seemed like an inhuman expenditure of energy, I gave it to him. He hauled me up on the first crate, reaching around my midst with the other arm, half stabilizing, half lifting me.

"Come one", he said between clenched teeth, "it'll be over in an instant…"

Without a will of my own, I put my feet where he told me to, more and more dependent on the strength of his arms, for all power seemed to have fled my limbs. In a rough-and-ready manner, we made it to the pinnacle of the stack, and with a pull-up Holmes reached the narrow window, climbing through at the very moment that the cellar door yielded and roaring flames invaded the flooded room.

"Kitty! Oh Kitty, please!"

His arms extended to me, he kneeled in the opening. I knew I was passing out, but somehow I got hold of his hands, and he pulled me up, tearing my arms open on the rough plastered wall, banging my head against the window frame. All grew black around me. I did not seem to breathe. The last thing I appeared to notice was I, lying with my back on cold, dewy grass, the cries of fire of several voices in the distance, and somebody lifted me from the ground, resting my dangling head against his shoulder.

**Cockney:**

**Derbies – handcuffs**

**Cuts – matches**

**Hi everyone!**

**Boah, finally I figured out this latest installment. Curious how you'll like it! :D**

**p.s. in German, to go through fire and water for someone is proverbial for sticking with someone at any cost. Does it exist in English, too? I wasn't sure.**


	48. Chapter 48

Chapter fourty-eight: Expectant

18th August 1887

„_Beneath your heart already/_

_Is there not stirring, swelling life…" Goethe's Faust_

Voices. Voices again! Once they seemed far away, the next moment close to my ear; and in between a sound like the rolling and stomping of the sea. Laboriously I opened my eyes to see what the matter was. I was not surprised to find myself lying in my very own bed, it seemed natural, sick and tired as I felt once I regained some physical feeling. Strangely out of place were only Mary and Watson, whispering with each other at the end of the room. But oh well, Watson was a doctor after all, and if ever I had needed one, it was now.

With a feeble effort to sit up, I tried to attract their attention, but that proved quite superfluous, apparently they had been observing me closely. "Oh, John! Look!"

"Kitty! You are conscious at last." Watson hurried to my bedside, sitting down and reaching for my hand. "Oh, you poor girl. All is well now, have no fear. You are safely at home."

I watched his face silently as he spoke, uneasily turning my head on the pillow. "What…happened?"

"You were held hostage. Can't you remember? The Ripper, he abducted you…"

"Oh – yes…" I lay quite still, recalling the events that had taken place in the ghastly cellar room one after the other. He had locked us in…laid fire…Holmes had freed me and we had escaped through the window. But then, somewhere, the thread of my recollection was broken off. Try as I might, I could remember nothing of what had happened afterwards.

A terrible hot and cold sensation suddenly filled my stomach and again I tried to sit up, agitatedly struggling against Watson who withheld me gently, but relentlessly.

"Where is Mr. 'olmes? What 'as 'appened to him?"

The bashful glance Watson traded with his wife was more terrifying to me than plain words. "What 'as 'appened to him?" I cried out loud. "I he well? Is he alive? I wanna see him! Where is he?"

"I am here", a raspy voice came from the door. Holmes had entered, wearing his burgundy dressing gown. He looked fatigued and worn out, with his skin all wan and his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He barely made any eye-contact with me, but glanced at Watson, quickly and sharply. "How is she, doctor? Is she hurt? Will she be – alright?"

"Yes, _Kitty_ will be alright", Watson sneered with a strange emphasis on my name, "and so will everybody else. She has got some bulges and abrasions, and a bad shock. There remains nothing here to do for me. It would be best to make her eat something and then rest for a while. Mary will look after her."

I was confused to notice the coldness with which he talked to his friend. He did not even enquire after Holmes' own condition. Also, I could not fend off the impression that there was a subtext to their exchange, a meaning that escaped my comprehension.

Watson cautiously patted my head as he rose and gathered his things together. "Good-bye Kitty, and get well. I shall return in the morning to see how you are faring. Mary has offered to stay the night, if you so wish."

"I shall see you out", Holmes said eagerly, but the doctor just passed him by and descended the stairs. For an instant, my husband just stood still as though he had received a slap in the face before he left the room and closed the door after him.

I lay wondering until I heard a skirt rustle and Mary set down a washing bowl on my bedside table. "Will you turn your head towards me, darling?" she said softly. "I think I missed a bit when I cleaned you up earlier on."

She took a towel and dipped it into the water in the bowl, which, as I discovered, had a faint reddish hue. I yielded to her, and she carefully dabbed my encrusted temple. It stung, even worse so when she applied a pungent ointment to the open cut, reminding me of my rare visits to the municipal hospital.

"Ouch!" I complained, turning my head away.

"Pray look at me, Kitty. We don't want it to get inflamed, do we? There, that's right. We're done presently. Now, much better."

"Mary…" Something had come to my mind. "What happened to the Ripper, d'ye know? Did 'e scarper off?"

"No." She put bowl and towel aside and opened another cleansing essence to treat the abrasion on my arms with. I gasped a little when she touched the place where Whittaker had extinguished his cigarette against my skin. "It appears the fire he laid grew out of control. The entire house burned down, and for all that we can know, he burned with it."

"How awful!" I bit my lower lip. "Sure, 'e was an evil geezer, but still…I am sorry for 'im. Ya sees….it was quite a time that I considered 'im my mate…."

"Kitty!" She let her hand sink to her lap. "You knew this man?"

"Yeah", I grimaced painfully, "Yeah I did. Oh God, I was so incredibly daft, Mary! It was I who told 'im about Mr. 'olmes' plans to capture the criminal…I who provided him with the details…dammit, it was e'en I who let 'im know the date and time!" In exasperation, I passed my hands through my unruly hair. "I gave 'im a letter, meant fer another pal o' mine – 'e must 'ave read it! Cor, I made every possible mistake. I need ter tell Mr. 'olmes…."

"No!" Mary ejaculated sharply. I gave her a look of surprise. Her face relaxed a little, she even managed to smile. "No. There'd be no use in doing so, Kitty. You'd just be getting yourself into trouble - "

"But 'e needs to know, 'e 'as a right ter know it was my foolishness all along, my fault entirely…."

"I really think you had better not do that", Mary returned resolutely. "It is – better sometimes to remain in the dark about something rather than being disappointed."

"How d'ye mean?"

"I mean Mr. Holmes does not always get his deserts, and he can be thankful for it."

"What are ya talkin' - ?"

But we were interrupted when the door opened and Holmes re-appeared on the threshold. Mary rose swiftly and folded her hands in front of her apron.

"Your husband departed for home", he remarked calmly. "If you'd like to go as well, please do. You seem to be tired yourself; it would be too much to ask of you to pass the night waking."

"Thank you, I'd rather make sure Kitty gets something to eat before I leave."

Holmes hesitated. "We are much indebted to you. However – would you kindly leave us for a moment? I would like to have a word with my wife."

"I don't know whether it's advisable – "

"If you please", Holmes insisted. She nodded curtly and crossed over to the door. Turning back in the frame, she said:

"I shall go and prepare some supper for you, Kitty. What would you like? It should be something light for a start, you must be quite starved. Soup, perhaps? Would you like that?"

"Yes, thank you Mary. That sounds jus' right."

She disappeared, and Holmes slowly wandered my room, with his arms locked behind his back, inspecting it as though he had never seen it before. "Your mother, I presume?" he observed, nodding at the oil sketch above my fireplace.

"Yes, that's her at a little more than my age."

"A perfect likeness." He fell silent contemplating it, and I grew somewhat fidgety beneath my cover. Finally I could not stand it any longer.

"Mr. 'olmes I am so, so grateful for everything you did last night. I must apologize for my silly behaviour, I am not usually such a weakling – "

He turned around and silenced me with his index raised to the mouth. Again there was a pause during which he came to the side of my bed and assumed the seat Mary had occupied some minutes earlier. "Kitty…there is something particular I must tell you, though I do not seem to find quite the appropriate words…."

I watched him, large-eyed. His demeanour was very exceptional. I did not know what to make of it at all. His fingers were twisting and twirling in his lap, evidently craving for his pipe and tobacco pouch, or anything to do for that matter. It was obvious he had to force himself to look into my face openly.

"Yes, Mr. 'olmes?" I encouraged him.

"Dr. Watson was – that is, he came here last night to let me know – to inform me – " He cast down his eyes, which was accompanied by a fine twitch of his eyebrows. One received the impression he was about to communicate something quite unpleasant. "Well, the long and short of it is, you are with a child, Kitty – my child."

I held my breath, staring at him, waiting for him to meet my gaze again. "Is that – true? Is it certain? Can there be no mistake?"

"Quite certain." He looked at me for about a second, gave a brief smile and averted his eyes again.

"But – that's wonderful!" I issued a crazy laugh, clapping my hand to my mouth in amazement. "Can it really – I noticed no change at all – "

"It is too early for any biological symptoms", he explained, visibly relieved he had something to lecture me about; "Watson himself has the result only since yesterday. You may put considerable faith in his assessment, though."

"Oh, I – " The news filled me with infinite joy. Pregnant! At last – at last – "I am so awfully happy! Are you not happy also, Mr. 'olmes? Is this not what you have been wishing for, all those months?"

"Of course." Another fleeting smile. "It is the most joyous novelty. I could not wish for better."

His words were like music in my ears. In my euphoric state, everything sounded like praise, praise so dearly desired and so rarely received. My love for him welled up in my bosom as a warm and mighty surge. This was more perfect than the ending of a fairy tale. A miraculous rescue through the man I adored; a means to repay him and – a baby.

I would have liked to wrap my arms around his neck, to press myself to his chest and never let him go. But since this was impossible, I turned to the new source of my bliss. My fingers trembling with emotion, I opened the lower buttons of the blouse I was still wearing, and in rapturous wonder laid my hands on my still unaltered flat abdomen.

Of course there was no movement yet to be sensed, but my imagination and my knowledge about the existence of a tiny nucleus of human life sufficed to create a connection of sorts. I could not stop smiling. Holmes said nothing. His eyes were invariably fixed on the slip of skin between my skirt and the hem of my blouse. I blushed slightly and retracted my fingers, whereupon he suddenly raised his hand and reached out for me.

"May I – perhaps?" However, he almost instantaneously shook his head and withdrew his hand again. "Never mind."

I regarded him unflinchingly, but he decided to get up. Due to his unusually acute senses, he had heard Mary's steps on the stairs before me, and I swiftly drew up my covers when she came in, bearing a tray in her hands.

"I shall leave you now to Mrs. Watson's good care", Holmes observed airily, "If you will excuse me?"

oooOOOOooo

I had had no notion of how hungry I was until food was actually within my reach, however, Mary did not allow me any solid nourishment, and even insisted on spoon feeding me, which I found simply ridiculous. I felt as though I had never been better in my entire life. My exhilaration was so evident that Mary, fairly astounded, enquired after its cause, and was glad for me when I told her, beaming all over my face.

She did not say much, though. I could deduce from her words of congratulation that she had known it before me, and for some reason she appeared somewhat reserved on the subject. Maybe she was thinking about her own failures in this particular province, maybe my happy exuberance saddened her and made her think of what might have been. In order to be considerate of her, I ceased talking about the baby, but could not subdue my bright humour.

After my supper and a bath, she asked me to sleep, but I was much too excited to think of it. The day seemed to have drained her far more than me, and I sent her home to get some rest. Lying in my bed wide awake, I curled up and drew my knees up to my chin, hugging my arms to myself.

I could not believe how lucky I was. How easily something could have happened to my unborn child, down in the gruesome cellar of the Ripper! But Dr. Watson had said I would be fine, everything would be fine. I would take particular care of myself, now that I knew. Every day I would go for a walk, and I would eat the proper things, and keep regular hours. Mr. Holmes would be so satisfied with me!

I briefly checked the clock on the mantelpiece before returning to my bed a wee bit disappointed. It was a quarter to midnight. Something seemed to have told me he would look in on me again in the course of the evening, perhaps even sit with me and hold my hand for a while, perhaps even….

But he never returned to my room that night. Nor the night afterwards. Nor the night after that.

**Cockney: **

**To scarper - to beat off**

**Geezer – fellow, chap**

**Hum, okay! End of the marital duty!**

**Honestly, my heart is bleeding for little naïve Kitty, but I also pity Holmes, just a bit. Do you think Watson will forgive him, in the end?**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter fourty-nine: Don't buy me

_23__rd__ August 1887_

"_One's own good wife and hearth, we're told/_

_Are worth as much as pearls and gold." Goethe's Faust_

Almost a week had elapsed since our not entirely enjoyable adventure with the Ripper, and I felt as whole and sound as ever. The occurrence of first unmistakable evidence of my pregnancy had dispersed every remaining doubt, and I was filled with radiant confidence.

Watson and Mary were still coming around each day, but less and less for my sake and more for Mrs. Hudson's. The poor lady had taken to bed with a serious pneumonia, caused by the constant wet weather, a London record summer in a negative sense. I would have liked to see her, but Watson had objections. A contagion could have fatal consequences for me, and I was to stay away at all times.

Compared to the frequency of his presence in the house, we saw little of the doctor. Perhaps it was just my impression, but a certain distance seemed to have come into existence between him and my husband. Whenever they met accidentally, in the hall or on the stairs, Watson took flight, whereas Holmes appeared keen to detain him and engage him in conversation. I wondered about the meaning of this, but had not the sufficient courage to raise the question with either of the men.

As concerned Holmes, I should have thought that the defeat of the Ripper, no matter what the circumstances, combined with the news of a child would be apt to elevate his spirits that had been low for some time. The contrary was the case. A profound sadness had taken possession of him, to a degree unequalled in the whole of my experience of him. He did not do weird or alarming things anymore, but only due to the fact that he did nothing at all.

Long hours were dedicated to aimless wanderings and the rearrangement of small objects on his mantelpiece, and very often, particularly in the evening, I heard him play elegiac tunes on his violin. The cocaine bottle still lay untouched in his drawer, I had satisfied myself as to that, but surely it would not be long before it was put to use again. The all-round bleakness of pre-autumnal gusts and the constant rain showers no doubt added to his melancholia. Frequently he would sit in his window, doing nothing but observing the never changing scenario outside.

Thus, I was very gratified to find I had a visitor one day, just as I felt the general tribulation was beginning to devolve to me. Mr. Holmes had slipped out to restock his supply of smokables at the tobacco shop round the corner, so that I was all by myself except for Ginger Jack, who was sitting on my lap, nuzzling against my knitting. Mary ushered him in as I sat by the fire, re-lit against the humidity that started to creep into the house. I almost shoved Ginger Jack to the floor when the sprightly young man entered next to Mary, who held the door open for him.

"Lorenzo!"

"No, no, no, stay seated Kitty. You are still are in bad health." He all but precipitated himself on me, covering my shoulders with all the shawls and blankets within his reach. Mary discreetly closed the door as she departed. "I read about it in the paper just today. Madonna, what was he _thinking_ to place you in such peril? You could have been dead!"

"No – I – don't – stop it Lorenzo, you're choking me!" I shook off the overload of warmth-giving textiles. Ginger Jack miaowed his protest and hopped off my lap. "Well I could 'ave been, but I ain't, so jus' – "

"It was foolhardy. Sheer audacity!" Lorenzo fumed. "Your blood would have been on his head if something had happened, did that thought not occur to him? _Cielo_, just promise me you won't ever, ever consent to such a scheme again!"

"Now jus' calm down Lorenzo – "

"Promise!" he demanded, kneeling down so that our eyes were on one level, and taking me by the shoulders.

"Awright then!" I said reluctantly. "I promise, I won't ever, except under the most pressing circumstances – "

"No, never!" His shoulder length hair was vividly dangling around his face as he spoke. I was piqued to see the flush in his cheeks, the agitated glow in his Mediterranean eyes.

"Why ya so worked up, pray? Basically nothing happened…."

"Nothing!" he seethed, getting up impulsively. "A pretty sort of nothing!" he made a little effort to calm down, snatching Jack from the floor and stroking him angrily as he ambled between the chairs and the fireplace.

"Won't ya sit down?" I suggested, somewhat annoyed.

"No, indeed not!" he returned as though I had uttered an offense of sorts. "Pray just tell me Kitty, is this man in any way suited to keep you safe, or is he perhaps a risk factor additional to your own hardihood?"

I raised my shoulders with a perplexed laugh. "This way or the other, he is my husband…"

"Yes", Lorenzo said bitterly, "yes, I took notice of the fact. However, if something of the kind should happen again, I should recommend you leave and watch out for a more solid shelter than this marriage!"

His effrontery started to get on my nerves. "Lorenzo, I admit Mr. 'olmes does 'ave a number o' shortcomings, especially in 'is capacity of a protector. Nevertheless, it is I and not you who has to live wiv those, an' if I can put up wiv 'em, surely there can be no reason for you…"

"No", he retorted acidly, "It is absolutely no business of mine, is it?" He glowered at me across Ginger Jack's abundance of bronze fur. I sighed deeply.

"Lorenzo, just _what_ is that s'pposed ter mean?"

He finally took his eyes off me. Rubbing Ginger Jack, he slowly shook his dark head. "_Cara mia_. I hardly know myself. It's just…It's just…" His hands suddenly ceased stroking over the cat's rounded back. "Kitty, what's that you're knitting?"

I felt all the blood spurt into my head. With a feeling of profound guilt, I played with the little pink and blue fragments of knitwear. "This, ya means?" His eyes might have been a set of stones, so cold and unblinking they regarded me. "Well, they're jus' simply…"

I fell silent as I heard the sound of steps beyond the door, and an instant later, Mr. Holmes came in, bearing a parcel with the tobacconist's stamp on it. His dismal expression brightened into pleased surprise as he beheld Lorenzo by the fire. "Signor – Burini, isn't it? How extraordinarily good of you to call on us, on a day such as this. I trust your work is doing well?"

"Quite well, thank you sir", Lorenzo replied stiffly.

"Good, very good! We are also favoured by fortune lately. No doubt Kitty has already informed you about the happy event we are anticipating. She is very excited about it", Holmes carried on negligently, putting down the parcel and taking off his gloves.

"No doubt she has." Mary had reappeared on the threshold, smiling amiably at Lorenzo. "Perhaps you might like to drink to Kitty's health with us? I shall ring for the maid…."

"I'd – rather not, thank you", Lorenzo said hurriedly, letting Ginger Jack down on the sofa. "I was just about to leave, actually."

"Oh?" Holmes unwound his scarf and threw it across the fender. "Not because of me, I hope?"

"No – it is just…an urgent appointment…"

"I shall see you to the door, then", Mary offered, still smiling broadly. Evidently, she had taken a fancy to him.

"Thank you." Lorenzo fleetingly nodded at us. "Sir – Kitty – "

"Good bye, Lorenzo."

I sat with a very rigid back, looking into the flames, while Mr. Holmes passed the room behind me, whistling idly. "Pleasant chap, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is."

"So very – sophisticated, don't you think?"

"Yes."

"Hum…" he tugged on the scarf, which threatened to fall into the fire, and turned to the pipe rack, took out the cherry-root and turned it in his fingers. Mary's steps slowly returned on the stairs. Holmes recommenced whistling serenely. I contemplated the formations of the flames, without a word.

Mary stepped back into the room, humming. "Mrs. Hudson seems a little better", she told us. "Said she had a keen appetite today. I told the maid to look after her wants."

Neither of us replied. Undisturbed, Mary gathered up the blankets I had scattered on the floor and folded them one by one, depositing them on the backrest of one of the seats. "What an extraordinary semblance!" she observed after a while.

"Pardon?" Holmes snapped, suddenly on edge.

"Why – between you and Mr. Burini! Is it not very striking? As regards the physique, you might be brothers! Mr. Burini is younger of course…and more regular of feature…"

Holmes and I exchanged an amazed glance. Mary calmly continued to tidy the room, oblivious to my discomfort, until the maid appeared, asking for her advice. Together they left for the ground floor.

Holmes did not outstay her for one single minute. "Get the cat out of here!" He snarled, and with a bang of his door, he disappeared in his room.

oooOOOooo

_24__th__ August 1887_

His irritability persisted for what was left of the day, and on the morrow I was quite uneasy about coming down to have breakfast with him. To my surprise, however, he was perfectly placid and even wished me good morning. I was getting confused. Somehow I was unable to keep pace with his sudden mood swings. I observed him silently, but he did not venture to explain himself. Only a little later, when I had resumed my place by the fire, I found something under my knitting.

"Mr. 'olmes? What's this?" Dumbfounded, I held up a hundred pound cheque signed to my name.

"It is money", he explained patiently, "intended for your private use."

"Whatever for?" I asked perplexed.

"Oh, I was just thinking. Dresses and such are getting dreadfully expensive lately. Besides, I presumed you would like to do some shopping – get this and that for the boy, you know."

"The – boy?"

"Yes Kitty, the boy!" His patience was short-lived. "Pray do not tell me you are oblivious to the usual outcome of a pregnancy!"

"It might turn out to be a girl!" I reminded him, but he waved me away.

"Highly improbable. Boys run in my family."

The absurdity of the argument made my blood boil. "Well, but girls run in mine, Mr. 'olmes! Girls run in my family!"

"Your….?" He sniffed arrogantly, as though he did not even know what I might be referring to. "Very good Kitty, indulge in whatever delusion you will, buy whatever you want, it is all the same to me. Just do not get in my way; I am on a new case. Why don't you hop it and treat yourself to – anything?"

For a response, I took the cheque, tore it into innumerable snippets and let them flutter to the floor. Holmes' eyes narrowed, but he retained his equilibrium. "I see". He coldly observed. "It was just meant to please you, actually. But perhaps I have been treating you rather too liberally – "

"Ye're – ye're re'lly the limit, Mr. 'olmes!" I ejaculated, jumping to my feet. "How can ya offer me money after everything – after _everything_? How can ya be so terribly, terribly stupid – "

"Enough!" His chest was heaving. "You ungrateful brat. It would be better to send you to the nursery rather than the childbed!"

I could not help myself, I started to whine. "Y – ya ruined everything, M-Mr. 'olmes! I-I've been so happy 'bout it an' n-now ya've ruined it all!" I pressed my hands to my face so that he might not have the satisfaction of seeing my tears. Why did he always have to reduce me to this? And why had I not long learned to brace myself against it?

Casting him a look, drenched in hate, I rushed to the door, only half aware of his feeble attempts at reconciliation.

"Kitty, come back at once! Kitty, I didn't mean to…."

oooOOOooo

Back in my own room, I sobbed and raged. The pain I suffered directed my hatred against everyone and everything, Holmes, Baron Gruner, without whom I would not be in this mess now, Holmes, the wretched baby, Holmes, myself and Holmes. Even the ticking of the clock was hateful to me. Eight months-one week –thirty minutes – five seconds; Eight months-one week – thirty minutes – four seconds…

In a fit of frenzy, I grabbed the offensive timepiece and hurled it against the bureau with all the power of my muscles. It hit the drawer and fell to the floor, the wooden shell in two halves; the glass in splinters. But I did not pay any attention to that. Simultaneously to the smash of the clock, there had been a loud, dry snap, similar to the sound from a cork that comes off the champagne bottle. The right drawer had sprung open.

Very cautiously I approached. Life with Holmes had taught me to take care with everything unfamiliar. But since neither a knife nor a surviving bird spider sprung from the drawer, I withdrew it completely from the bureau and placed it on top. It contained a stack of paper, bundled like a manuscript, several documents and some photographs. I took the uppermost picture, an old black and white family portrait.

In the portrait, there were a husband and a wife with two young boys. Clearly, it had been arranged as had been the custom at the beginning of the century, the constellation looked so rigid and unnatural. None of the four persons in the picture smiled, not even the children. I looked at their father, a tall man, imposing, virile, a Hercules with a dour face but the forehead of a man of learning. He seemed larger than life somehow, taking up most of the space in the photograph, crowding out the other persons.

The mother was equally tall, but much lankier, hushed, a woman that would not speak up to anyone, and certainly not to her angst-inducing master. She was neither ugly nor beautiful, with her tiny, sallow face and her sickly pale blond head. Even in the picture, she seemed to cringe and cower, intent on leaving as much room as possible between herself and the other people, on attracting nobody's notice.

The boys, dressed in old-fashioned suits, their hair combed back severely, displayed almost blank expressions. Mycroft was already a good head's length taller than his little brother, and bore traits of his father about the skull and face, though he was far less well-built. Sherlock the seven-year-old had not yet developed his strong facial resemblance to both of them. He stood very close to his brother, but they did not touch at any point. Nobody in the picture did.

I let the photograph sink to the table top. How had it come into my drawer? And what else was in there? I dived my hand into the container and reached for the small bundle of papers. On the first page, it said: "Sherlock Holmes: The career of an analytical genius. A biography by John H. Watson, MD."

I took a seat on my bed, leafing through the dusty pages. My interview with Watson, some months ago, resurfaced in my memory. He had told me he had once endeavoured to write his comrade's biography, and he had told me one or two things about his life. But as I sat reading, inclined over his abandoned draft, simply forgotten on his change of residence, I comprehended he had been far from telling me all.

**Uuuuuh, cliffhanger! Love those. Still no pity for Holmes? I mean the question is: can he help his own tactlessness? I do have some sympathy for the poor twat…**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	50. Chapter 50

Chapter fifty: A la recherche du temps perdu

24th August 1887

"_Each lives it though it's known to few/_

_Grasp it where you will, there's interest for you." Goethe's Faust_

**Prelude**

My intimate friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes has always been a man to inspire the interest of even the most superficial observer, whether it be his singular gifts or his extraordinary character that attract the invested curiosity. Though I could not wish for better than satiate the demands of the reading public, and though I flatter myself to be well acquainted, due to long years of companionship, with both his talents and his personality, I must confess that I know very little about his earlier life, apart from an occasional remark dropped by him when in a communicative mood.

As it is my aim to compose a complete account of his private past, before in a more theoretical section I shall dedicate my attention to his professional achievements, I feel it is my duty to take upon me the pains to establish a more profound knowledge of my subject. Having studied all family documents which he was as kind as to cede to his biographer, as well as all publicly available reports about his ancestral line, I cannot but think my purpose would be best served by visiting the headwaters of his existence, and I shall shortly depart for an educational journey to his place of origin.

**On childhood**

Sherlock Holmes was born the son of Professor Nathaniel Holmes and his wife Violet, on the 25th December 1847, close to the small town of Hurst Green, Lancashire, in the Lake District. Relying on what evidence can be unearthed upon the matter; his ancestors had been country squires, but with the impoverishment and general decline of the landed gentry, the Holmes family had long had abandoned titles and the imprint of nobility, conforming to an intellectual rather than aristocratic life style.

Apparently, the only non-English influence would be constituted by Mrs. Holmes senior, by the maiden name of Marie-Claude Vernet, formerly of Paris. She had come to Great Britain at the turn of the century in order to marry Holmes' grandfather. Descendant of a liberal clan of artists and accustomed to life in the metropolis, Marie-Claude had had great difficulties in adapting to the surroundings of an English family manor, as remembered by the eldest domestics still in service there.

Her only son, Nathaniel, spent a great part of his life travelling abroad, and for a number of years occupied the chair of palaeontology at Cambridge University. After his relatively late-in-life marriage to Violet Sheridan, offspring of a locally respected family, he at last settled down at his ancestral home in Lancashire.

According to appearances, the marriage was not a success. Naturally of a delicate disposition, Violet was often ill and suffered from a severe form of chronic depression, untreated and pointedly ignored. Nathaniel in the neighbourhood was said to be sorely disappointed in his choice after his wife had had several miscarriages, and little less in the feeble infants she finally bore.

Mycroft and his brother Sherlock, both christened to family names on their maternal side, were indeed prey to frequent maladies in their early childhood, but performed an astonishingly good development once they had left behind the most critical age. Both children received their educated through a private tutor, supplemented by lessons with their father, who had given up lecturing entirely and was mostly engaged in studying and writing learned books.

The grandmother also had a hand in the boy's upbringing, and was especially seen in the company of the younger one, as maintained by Reverend Chester Larkin, then only Deacon in the parish of Hurst Green.

_They were one heart and one soul, those two. Wherever Mrs. Holmes went, the lad [Sherlock] followed like a devoted retriever – and vice versa, make no mistake!_

Apart from their general studies, the young Messrs. Holmes developed their own personal interests – figures in Mycroft's case, organic chemistry in Sherlock's – and indulged in what sportive pastimes were deemed suitable for boys in their social sphere.

Later, they attended the close by boarding school Stonyhurst College as externals, but their ordered lives were interrupted by a terrible tragedy: Desperate victim of her unstable psyche, and convinced she could do nothing to deserve her husband's esteem, Violet had set and end to her time on earth, making her two teen-aged sons demi-orphans and adding to her widower's bitterness.

**On Adolescence**

At this crossroads, the brother's lives separated ominously. Mycroft took his college degrees the same year and departed for Cambridge, submitting to his father's expectations. Sherlock, only twelve years old, was moved to Paris by his grandmother, who desired to return to her own family now her son had become an insufferable cohabitant.

Little is known about what might be called the Parisian episode in Sherlock's life. It is certain that he made plenty of novel experiences, living in a great city for the first time, in the bosom of a family so entirely different to all he knew. His command of the French language was sufficient to let him participate in the courses held for the benefit of the Vernet children, but that does not seem to have been his main occupation at the time. Under the influences of his altered surroundings, he started to take an interest in art and especially the theatre, much encouraged by Marie-Claude and her relatives.

Taking acting lessons himself and learning to play the violin, Sherlock appeared to have discovered a new life for himself, but again it was not to last long. On having accomplished the _baccalaureat _at the age of eighteen, he was called back to England by his imperative father. Thus Sherlock left, though unwillingly, again for Cambridge University. Marie-Claude lived for some four or five years longer. She is buried on the _Cimetière Montparnasse _in Paris, like all members of her family.

If little is known about his years on the Continent, much less is there about his time at the University. I can only draw on his very own statements to tell how dissatisfied he was with both his studies and his peers. Mycroft, though he had long graduated and left for London, still lived as a legend amongst those who had known him, and no doubt many tried to advance Sherlock for this reason, but he did not seem to warm to any of anyone except his accidental acquaintance Victor Trevor, at whose house he spent the vacation, reluctant to return to his own home.

It is also certain that during this time, he commenced evolving his own special methods and theories, which were to become so indispensable for him in his future profession. Convinced that a living could be made on the powers with which he used to dazzle his fellow students, Sherlock decided to leave Cambridge without a degree. This decision resulted in a great quarrel and finally the rupture between him and his father, and following the example of his brother, Sherlock aimed for the Capital, disinherited and fallen from grace.

oooOOOooo

That was all. He had not come any further. With a sigh, I put the unfinished manuscript aside. There were a few other things in the drawer. Sherlock's birth certificate, French educational credentials, a photograph portraying a cheerful, rotund lady with an osprey hat, probably Marie-Claude.

There was also a letter, dated from Darwin College, Cambridge, but perhaps never sent, in which the writer very politely addressed his "Dearest Grand-Mère", and bitterly complained of this "inhospitable town", declaring how much he missed life in the great, vibrant City. At the very bottom of the drawer, there was one last photograph of two young men in fencing outfits, one punching the other against the shoulder and laughing immoderately about some long-forgotten remark. "From Victor, _in memoriam_ of an abysmal show", it said on the backside.

Those were the remnants of almost forty years of life.

With a sad smile, I put everything back into the drawer, re-inserting it into the bureau carefully. Nobody ever had the tiniest bit of faith in me. Not Watson, and certainly not Holmes. Sure, some of the things I had learned were badly unsettling. Reading about his difficult father, the death of his mother had affected me deeply, but I was not a child, I could cope!

Anyhow, my anger at him had almost evaporated. I did not hold the cheque against him anymore, he had maybe never learnt to express appreciation and gratefulness in other terms. The only thing still to prey on my mind was his rejection of the idea that our child might not be a boy. However….

_Flashback…._

"_I have agreed to this visit out of respect for my father, Mr. Holmes, rather than for you", Violet Merville emphasized, scrutinizing us with a distaste that rendered her words redundant. "My finacé assures me you're no longer what you were – a spent force."_

_I could not but admire the way Holmes remained calm at the outrageous insult; he restricted himself to a stony, penetrating glare aimed at the offender. But Miss Merville was not yet done. Turning my way, she continued: "And you, Miss Winter? Surely you must also be superfluous?"_

_I would have liked to punch her stupid, self-righteous face, but after a glance from Holmes reconsidered. It would perhaps be ill-timed. _

"_Our intentions are the best", Holmes said suavely, indicating a chair for me to sit down on, while he and Miss Merville also took their seats. "We are here to aid you."_

_An incredulous arch of the nicely tended eyebrow. "Really? When you try to malign my finacé?"_

"_I am not renowned, Miss Merville, for the warmth of my affections", Holmes returned, somewhat sterner, but still very reserved. "Yet I'm convinced that if I had a daughter, I would sure feel for her as the General does for you."_

I needed to try and understand him better; find a way to inspire his trust, otherwise I would never be able to participate in his joys and sorrows. But how could I express my sympathy without revealing what I had just learned? He would not forgive a direct intrusion, an attempt to force his confidence. So what to do, to say?

A reconciliation seemed like a good start. But when finally I had brought myself to seeking him out, I found he had left for whatever new errand he was on.

oooOOOooo

I spent the day knitting and studying the baby book Mary had given me, and went to bed early. But it did not seem a long time before the front door clapped downstairs. It was he!

Getting up and slipping on my negligee, I stealthily moved to the door and went down the stairs. Despite the clear, brilliant summer night outside, it was pitch dark within the narrow confines of the walls, and I could only find my way by feeling along them. Although I could see nothing, I sensed he was there, somewhere in the dark, and no doubt he knew I was there, albeit my naked feet made near to no sound on the boards.

I stood quite still. There was no whiff, no noise, no movement in the nightly house. Only the bright moon was to be seen out of the window, only the quiet exhalation to be heard in the shadows.

"I am sorry!" I whispered, my lips barely moving, before they were met by his, lighter than the touch of a flower, sweeter than the sweetest of poisons…

The clapping front door made me sit up in my bed, shivering as though from high fever. His actual return had interrupted the habitual course of my delectable nightmare.

I had fallen asleep over Mary's baby book.

**Heyyyy! What's doing?**

**I hope I didn't overcharge you with minutiae of Holmes' past life. On making it up, I drew partly on my own family history, partly on Nick Rennison's Unauthorized Sherlock Holmes Biography. Perhaps it'll help comprehension a little…**

**Apart from that, I must express my warmest recommendation of the Professor Challenger stories by Sir ACD. Read them if you haven't, they're BRILLIANT! Same as Sherlock Holmes…**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter fifty-one: High Voltage

25th August 1887

"_One glance from you, one word more entertains/_

_Than all the wisdom that the world contains." Goethe's Faust_

The next morning, I was down before him. He was rather taking his time, I thought. Not that there were a particular time Holmes used to get up, on the contrary, his hours varied extremely. But today he had rather outstayed the average time.

However, I smiled forbearingly at him when finally he stepped over the threshold of his room, tousled and yawning, and evidently surprised I had waited up for him.

"Good Morning!" I said cheerfully, having decided that it would be better to ignore the events of the preceding day, rather than venturing a direct appeal at his forgiveness. Running me over askance, he replied:

"Morning", and sat down opposite to me. He became more and more suspicious as I poured out his coffee and brought his newspaper, and winced like a startled animal when in passing, I fleetingly stroked my hand over his shoulder blade. Coffee spilt out of the cup and on the front page of the _Standard_.

"Pay attention!" he snarled indignantly, dabbing the paper with his table napkin. I resumed my seat and took up my knitting, smiling demurely. Safely barricaded behind the _Standard_, Holmes continued his breakfast, only a trifle irritated when I passed him his cigarette case at the very moment that he wanted it.

"Thank you!" he all but snapped. "I will light the match myself, if you will trust me to that?"

"Of course, Mr. Holmes." It was impossible to be more deferential than I. Silently I knit the baby sock, two stitches left, two stitches right, whilst he got up and, enveloping himself in smoke, wandered towards the window and gazed down on the street.

The blue wool was running short, but I did not want to provoke a fresh quarrel by using the pink, so I worked slowly, from time to time directing clandestine glances at his oblivious shape in the window. He _did _have nice shoulders…

A little apprehensive, lest he should somehow see through my sacrilegious thoughts, I quickly pushed myself to focusing on my work. But my eyes had their own, annoying way of returning to their starting point. Closely avoiding pricking myself with my needle, I admired his figure from beneath my lashes. It was perfectly slender and supple with just the right amount of masculine properties, there was nothing of either his father's muscular overload, nor of the mother's morbid delicacy.

That a man gifted with such mental powers should in addition be blessed with so eligible a body seemed almost more than the fair share of good fortune. But even he had a good deal of deficiencies, I suddenly recalled, he was not free of the imperfection for which human kind was remarkable. I wondered whether….

"That's a physician's hansom down there", Holmes suddenly observed, "Yes, surely it must be Watson's. I thought Mrs. Hudson were better?"

He spoke lightly, but I discerned the hopeful note. He had undoubtedly suffered from the frequent absence of his two only friends during the past week. If the landlady were indeed improved, but Watson still calling, it would assuredly be a good sign in his view.

"It must absolutely be Watson", I confirmed, joining him by the window, seizing the opportunity to stand quite close to him, though I knew I was doing myself no favour by that.

By the time the doctor had emerged from his vehicle and again vanished from sight, my cheeks had grown quite hot, and as he ascended the stairs, my heart drummed a hectic rhythm that was clearly everything but healthy. It was in a way a relief when we could turn around to greet Watson, who had entered after a short rap.

"Good morning", he returned shortly. "I am sorry to interrupt Kitty, but…"

"You bring news of a case, certainly!" Holmes exclaimed. "After all, you _are _the stormy petrel of crime, Watson."

If this was intended a compliment, Watson evidently failed to appreciate it. "Nothing of the sort. My visit is owed to Mrs. Hudson's condition. She is improving, but slowly, and I'm afraid the present chill humidity is impeding recovery."

"What could we do about that?" I wrung my hands. "I 'ave awready made the maid taike ever' possible measure ter keep her warm. We cannot change the climate, can we?"

A smile ghosted over Watson's face. "No, indeed not I should think. Nor is it necessary that we do so. It would suffice to transport her where the kinder clime is to be found, so that she may get rid of her affliction entirely. Why not send her to Brighton, too? I learn you had very lovely weather there."

"Not 'un day o' rain!" I confirmed readily, before I became aware of Holmes falling silent. Like always, I caught on with his thoughts after some moments of delay. If Mrs. Hudson were to leave for Brighton, Watson would cease calling, and that would mean the two of us would be completely, utterly –

"That would leave you alone, of course", Watson said reluctantly after a pause, "apart from the maid and page. I don't know whether you'll be able to manage…"

"Oh, no doubt. I mean, I expect there's work ter be done, but I don't object – "

"Kitty! You couldn't", Mr. Holmes protested, but at least on that score I could see no problem at all.

"I could, fer sure. 'ad frequently ter taike care o' more 'n two persons at a time, hain't I? Children, at that. I know 'ow ter manage a household an' I don't mind. It'll do me good ter 'ave some kind o' commitment…"

"Well…if you really think you could…"

Watson seemed quite glad to have found this solution. He was so very fond of the old lady. Holmes was clearly not amused, but he said no more. Probably he was afraid to disgruntle the doctor any further.

"That's agreed, then. And Kitty, about yourself – I should expect you in my practice some of these days, so that we can talk health in private." He gave Holmes a sour look, as though he were a vicious germ eavesdropping on our precautions. "I shall go down now and see how she is doing. Good day to you both."

He smiled at me curtly, nodded at Holmes even more curtly, and took his leave. I frowned. "What a curious behaviour…"

"What is?" Holmes asked ungraciously.

"Jus'….nothin'." I shrugged my shoulders.

"Well, don't comment on it if it is nothing." He threw his dressing gown on the sofa and returned to his room to complete his attire. But I still was not satisfied.

What was the matter with Watson? Had he found out about – well, the origins of our marriage? If so, surely he would have to despise both of us, but significantly his discontent seemed to be directed exclusively against my husband. It could not be that then, or at least not only that. But judging on the expression of Holmes' face whenever the question threatened to arise, I would never learn the reason for their estrangement.

And above all, he was so strange lately, he only seemed to vacillate between being gloomy and being on edge since…well, since we had learned about the baby. If it had at all contributed to his happiness, he was doing his best to disguise the fact. Was all this due to his falling out with the doctor? It would account for the sadness. But his constant, seemingly causeless irritability? I was not so sure.

oooOOOooo

Holmes left me to look into a matter concerning a golden pince-nez – nothing too engaging judging on the sound of it. Once again, it was raining cats and dogs, which forbade the very notion of going out of the house.

Quite some time was passed in helping Mary to get Mrs. Hudson's things together – the poor woman's lungs certainly were much affected by the dreadful weather, she would hardly stop coughing and breathed rather heavily. However, the day presented me with fresh visitors, as unexpected as gladly received.

Ernie and Porkey came for a short call and stayed almost three hours. The former was alternatingly whining and asking my forgiveness for our row – as though I were still bothered by _that_ – and cursing the day he had let Al Whittaker into his house (it was of no use to tell him that it had been fortunate and had saved many women's lives).

The latter was thrilled by my news, though I had to apologize solemnly for not telling him first, as had been the agreement. But in the end he understood that such things do not usually go according to plan. If they did, I would have been the first person to know, and nobody else!

oooOOOooo

After I had finally got rid of the two, the rain suddenly stopped. I felt the need for a breath of fresh air. Putting on my hat and _paletôt_, I marched into the direction of the City. It was only now that I realized just how much I had yearned for some exercise, for going out and moving amongst complete strangers. I refrained from taking a cab. It was so much nicer to walk, or to go by 'bus as soon as my legs began to tire.

There was still some balance on my bank account. I entered a toy shop and purchased a cuddly bear, construction bricks, a rattle, a jumping jack, a box of tin soldiers, a book with nursery rhymes, and, to be on the safe side, a doll fashioned after Princess Alexandra.

Much happier than before, but also packed to the brim, I made my way down Shaftesbury Avenue, when at the corner to Piccadilly Circus I bumped into a smallish, curly headed woman with a snub nose.

"I'm so sorry ma'am, me packages, ya knows…."

The woman ignored my confused apologies. Squinting her eyes and straightening her hat with one hand, she exclaimed: "Why, it's little Kitty Winter, surely!"

"Holmes", I corrected her mechanically, "it's Kitty Holmes now. 'ow d'ye do, Phoebe?"

"Why yes, yes, yes, we _did_ meet just the other day. I wonder where that was? Right, you came to my house with Lorenzo, now I remember. But pray, why must we talk standing out in the drizzly weather like two dairy maids? Come in here! It's my favourite place hereabouts."

Without much ado, she seized my elbow and towed me through the door of a fairly exclusive-looking establishment. _Café Monico_, the only glimpse at the outer façade told me, before I was manoeuvred past red plush curtains and directed to sit down at one of the window tables, opposite to Phoebe.

"Some Oolong for my young friend and me", Phoebe ordered, busily removing the pins around her sumptuous flamingo-feathered hat. "And crumpets with jam, clotted cream and apple tart. And don't be too long about it, I am in something of a rush today."

I noted the way Phoebe was treated with respectful forbearance, as though she were indeed a regular partron to the place, and also the way she enjoyed issuing commands, in the full knowledge that never again she would have to wait on any tables in the whole wide world.

"So", She observed after a second which was economically spent in drawing breath, "you are married now. Yes, I recall Lorenzo telling me that, the night that you came to see me. When was that again?"

"It's been quite some time", I helped refresh her mind. "The night you 'ad Mr. G- reading at your plaice, ya knows?"

"Ah, Mr.G- …fabulous man." Phoebe sighed fondly. "he's hopelessly out of fashion of course – but to such a degree as to give him a touch of novelty and interest. Believe me, he has come to stay – both as a writer and a person elegant society."

"You seem ter enjoy people that 'ave _come to stay_", I remarked drily.

"I do. Is there anything just as enjoyable? _You_ ought to show more in society, you know. Marriage and all that is very well, however it does not always provide sufficient diversion. But I perceive – " her quick, inquisitive eyes darted at my baggage, running it over curiously. I blushed.

"Um, yes, the timing for that is summat inconvenient. I shall be much occupied in future…my circumstances 'ave altered."

"So I see." She nodded, and directed a penetrating gaze at my face. "My dear, you _are_ still thinking of that painting, aren't you? My friend, Lord George, will be having his private exhibition in September – that's next month. It would be a crying shame if Lorenzo of all people weren't included in it."

"Yes – I – " I drew circles on the shiny walnut surface of the table with my index. "I – that is to say, we, had a trifling misunderstanding the other day."

"A misunderstanding?" Phoebe's narrow brow rose.

"Indeed, yes."

"Between Lorenzo and you?" The brow rose even higher.

"Yes."

"But my dear child!" she made a gesture of helpless incomprehension, almost brushing the Staffordshire tea set from the table that was just being laid out. "You're seeing this in utterly false dimensions! This is not time to stick at trifles, or indulge in childish pride. Lorenzo _needs_ this exhibition. He's not having any patrons. He's not getting commissions. It is the chance of a lifetime! George has told me about the picture, says it is really quite remarkable. Trouble is, Lorenzo is reluctant these days to show it to a third party. I suppose that must be because there is no progress made. _Is_ there any progress being made?"

"Not re'lly, I'm afraid." I lowered my head. "We hain't been workin' on't in about two weeks."

"Well, hurry up then! Just go and see Lorenzo, and tell him you're sorry you – you – what was it you did to him?"

"Di'n't tell 'im about the chile afore 'e found out", I muttered weakly.

"As I thought. Just some itty-bitty disagreement that can be settled at a moment's notice. And one more reason to make haste! Expectant women rarely make good models!"

Reclining in my seat, I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling a bit railroaded. After all, what did Phoebe know about modeling! She could have sat for the rotten wing of a youth fountain tableau, at best.

"Anyway…" she recommenced, somewhat more kindly. "I am sure we shall get Lorenzo where we want him, and we all want him to succeed, don't we? Tell me, is the painting still very incomplete?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I can ne'er judge on that. Paintings often look perfectly complete ter the layman, whereas the artist still finds bits an' pieces that need some polishin'. Far as I'm concerned, the painting _is_ completed. Yet really nobody could decide that but Lorenzo himself…"

Absent minded, I accepted a cup of tea from Phoebe, and bit into a scone with strawberry spread.

**Aha! Further contact with Lorenzo seems inevitable. **

**Good thing, too! With both Holmes and Kitty off sex, I'm cracking up over the surly, testy atmosphere at 221B….**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter fifty-two: Home, sweet home

26th August 1887

"_Boxes and glasses round me crammed/ and instruments in cases hurled/ ancestral stuff around me jammed/ That is your world! That's called a world!" Goethe's Faust_

On the following day, Watson and Mary came early to fetch Mrs. Hudson. I wrapped the old lady in her scarfs and carried her hat-boxes out to the cab, and I also needed to hold the umbrella when she, resting on Mary's arm, stepped out of the house and climbed into the vehicle, for the weather had not improved one iota.

Solitarily I stood on the rain-splashed sidewalk and listened to the landlady's anxious prattle. She had not left London in almost twenty years and like myself was going to Brighton for the very first time. I still stood in the same spot when the cab started to move. The Watsons were to drive Mrs. Hudson to Victoria, to drop her for the southbound train.

Holmes had not shown up to say adieu, he had not moved one single finger. Only now that I remained looking after the cab, which steadily went down the street and disappeared amongst carts and carriages, a window on the upper storey was flung open, just above my head.

"Kitty! Come back into the house, ere you catch a cold!"

With a small sigh I craned my neck to look up, but the window had already been banged shut and all I was left to do was oblige and return inside. Slightly shaking my umbrella in the hall, I heard Ginger Jack meow and a moment later, Holmes came down the stairs, sneezing artificially.

"This mephitic wretch. But please! Do not concern yourself with the state of my health. I shall be fine, I reckon!" he said venomously, putting on his frock and top hat and reaching for his cane.

"I think so, yes. When I perceive you are going out to indulge in some sportive activity, your health cannot be so very precarious," I retorted, significantly glancing at his unusually bulky bag.

"Indulge!" He huffed. "Don't be daft. _I_ would certainly not waste time on exercise if it were for mere pleasure. It is just possible that my skills as a swordsman may be required in the foreseeable future, so I intend to improve on them at short notice. If I might have your kind permission?"

I tersely shrugged my shoulders. "Come, Ginger Jack!"

"Remember to keep him out of my rooms!" Holmes exclaimed petulantly, evidently intent on picking up a quarrel, but I did not deem his remark worth a reply. His irascibility fuelled by my stoicism, he rushed out of the house, hopefully not to be back in short time.

oooOOOooo

The morning of my first day as an autonomous housewife was spent in cleaning and tidying Holmes' inconceivable mess. Sweet Lord! It was high time. How had he even come up with the idea of keeping his cigars in the coal scuttle? His tobacco in the Persian slipper? His correspondence fixed against the mantle with a jack knife?

I burned loads of outdated newspapers, emptied the various vessels he used as ashtrays and scrupulously waded the floor of his bedroom, strewn all over with shirts, waistcoats and multi-coloured scarfs, all carelessly tossed about in search for today's outfit. The only place where a certain order seemed to prevail was the workbench where he conducted his chemical experiments, but I did not dare to touch that anyway, since I did not know about the possibly hazardous properties of the different substances.

Furthermore, I decided the time had come for a set of new curtains on his windows. I had always abhorred the bold, hideous floral print, and I was convinced that the tobacco smoke had infested them so profoundly over the years that every attempt at lavation was _a priori_ damned to futility.

When everything was about as nice and trim as I wanted it to be, I did my hair and prepared to leave the house. There was some shopping to be done. But first, I had another errand to get through…

oooOOOooo

"Oh, it's you. Do come in."

Lorenzo was clearly not overjoyed at my call. I seemed to be less and less welcome on every visit that I paid him.

"Lorenzo, I jus'….came ter say sorry fer not tellin' ya…"

"Uh-uh. I've heard that before." He shrugged his shoulders forbiddingly. "So, what do you want? Do you want us to continue the picture that I might give it to high and mighty Lord Lewis for his oh-so-important exhibition?"

"Well – something of the sort", I conceded nervously. " Ya sees, I met Phoebe the other day an' she told me…"

"That I am in money trouble, I presume." Lorenzo laughed shortly. "So what? As measured by Phoebe's new standards, we all of us are pretty much destitute."

"It is not only that.". I regarded him earnestly. "Lorenzo, what is the matter? You seem so strangely changed, recently…"

"I?" He snorted ungracefully. "_I_ am changed?"

I cast my eyes to the floor. "Please, stop talking like that. Could we jus'…I mean…"

"Could we?" he stepped a little closer. I took in the smell of the colours that had stained his working clothes, thousand and thousand layers of them, like a picture of its own. "Could we – what, Kitty?"

"Not argue." I lifted my gaze and extended my hand to him. "Friends?"

I saw Lorenzo hesitate a little. His lashes lowered and were raised again before he gave me a tiny smile. Only now that it had been mentioned to me, I could discern how much indeed he resembled Mr. Holmes. Although he was wearing his hair a bit longer, and his complexion had that southern impact, the physique was undoubtedly similar.

"Friends", Lorenzo said, placing his hand in mine and squeezing it briefly. "Always friends."

"Oh – good."

Behind him, my picture was still standing in the same spot as on my last visit, in the centre of the room, on the same old scaffold. The set scene had also remained where it was, unchanged. Even a fresh blue iris had been placed in the water glass on the washstand. He has not been working on something else in the meantime, it passed my mind.

"However – we cannot go on workin' terday, Lorenzo. I am rather busy. Our landlady has fallen ill, ya knows…"

He nodded seriously. "Tomorrow, then?"

"Why – sure." My eyes returned to the painting on the scaffold behind him, complete and finished to the common beholder; painfully imperfect and unsatisfactory to its creator. "Tomorrow."

oooOOOooo

When Holmes returned home in the evening, it was just time for dinner. He seemed much more even-tempered than earlier in the day, perhaps an effect of the physical exertion, but that did not keep him from being gravely peeved by the embellishments I had applied to his rooms.

"I could not find my tobacco today", he complained, "It was not in the Persian slipper. Who told you to put it in the tobacco box? What an extravagant flight of the fancy! I need it for my lactose tablets!"

"Them whitish pills? I threw them away."

Whereupon he wailed as if over an irreparable loss, relating to me with all variants of _foolish woman_ above pain level. "And what about the curtains? I insist you put them back up this instant!"

"They were an insult to the eye. I am astonished Mrs. Hudson did not long replace them."

"They were as good as any others! And you brought – flowers - !" He suspiciously examined a pretty chrysanthemum bouquet on the sideboard.

"Well yeah, I 'appened ter pass the flower stand when shopping at Covent Garden", I defended myself, but refrained from reminding him that flowers actually came into his department as my husband.

"It is an outrage! I refuse to live in an outpost of feminine cleaning frenzy. What will you come up with next, hm? Antimacassars on the backrests of my seats?"

"Next, I'll help ya t'yer dinner, an' ya will be so kind as ter eat it", I reprimanded him, setting out plates, cutlery and tureens before I rid myself of my cooking apron.

"it remains an outrage, all the same", he grumbled, finally obeying and sitting down. "What's it, then? Not vegetables, I hope. I am quite averse to vegetables today."

"Not at all. It is Windsor Soup and partridges", I outflanked him.

"Well, that's better than nothing." Still in a huff, he placed his napkin on his lap and started to eat. "But don't imagine you will get away with the liberties you took just because you can cook."

"So I can – can't I?" His irreconcilable look amused me infinitely. "May I ask, Mr. 'olmes, what necessity it is that urges you to abandon your usual routine to work on your non-intellectual qualities?"

"It is a plain necessity of life", he shrugged uncommunicatively.

"So is cooking. But you know what I was up to all day."

"I don't care if you know. Someone's trying to kill me."

"Oh?" I was but mildly surprised. "Who is it, this time?"

"A very amiable young man in the London Fencing League. I found out most of his triumphs were owed to crude fraud, and in order to rehabilitate his shattered reputation, the bounder has proposed to stab me with his rapier. Which is why I am carrying this with me at all times", he observed, lifting up his cane, which, as I perceived, was not at all his usual, silver-topped walking stick, but a rather delicate looking ebony implement. However, the impression was deceitful. There was a sudden _Snap!_ and a long, sharp blade darted out of its interior.

"Oh, Mr. 'olmes! D'ye think this will do against a professional swordsman with his rapier?"

"Quite. Remember, he is but a fraud when all is said and done. And I may say, without any desire to boast, that I am myself not so very abysmal with the blade."

Abysmal. The word recalled to me the photograph with Victor Trevor, but of course I could not relate to that. "You'll 'aver ter be careful, nonetheless."

"I am. Always." A smile flitted over his lips. Reclining in his chair and stuffing his after dinner pipe from the objectionable tobacco box, he observed: "My day was certainly not without interest, but in intellectual terms, rather less than stimulating. However, my mind has not been lulled so far as to miss the fact that you had quite an unsettling experience in its course."

I had risen to collect the crockery, and at his words did my best to appear even busier than I was. "Ah yes? What makes ya think so?"

"Nothing but a certain thoughtful gravity in your expression. You were, if I may say so, in a somewhat more belligerent mood when last I saw you, hence my surmise that whatever troubled you happened during the previous ten hours."

"Yes…yes….a trifling misunderstanding…"

I suddenly felt a lump rise in my throat and was unable to proceed. Holmes did not press me. He remained silent while I gathered our things and carried them downstairs into the kitchen. After I had returned, he changed the subject to something quite different.

oooOOOooo

"Well, ma'am? Whatcha think?" The young man wiped his nose with his sleeve for the umpteenth time in less than half an hour. "Any good?"

I looked about in the small flat, my brows raised and my nose wrinkled. "It is frightfully loud. You understand that my friend is of a very delicate constitution, and that her nerves must be treated with the utmost care."

"Ah yeah, but it's jus' because we've got all o' them windows open. Shut #em an' ya'll think yer twenty miles outta town. Anyways, a li'lle noise cannot be avoided so close to the City center…it's a first rate location."

"Well, if something's not first rate, it's yer plumbing", I returned snippily. "The smell is re'lly abominable."

"Right, but that's being seen to."

"Maybe. However, these things always take longer an' longer an' then jus' a li'lle longer, an' I _re'lly _don't think I can 'ave me friend stay in a polluted atmosphere such as this fer weeks an' weeks on end. She's a genuine lady, she is."

"Well…." The youth seemed a little worn out. "P'raps we could come to an agreement over that inconvenience, ma'am?"

"Tell me."

He took off his cab and turned it in his short, stubby fingers. "What about we promise the plumbing's done till end o' next month, an' yer lady friend's goin' ter stay rent-free those four weeks?"

"Hummm…." I was extremely reluctant to agree, but the sweating lad had already produced the rental contract from out of nowhere, making alterations in Natasha's favour.

"If ya please, ma'am? Yer friend could move in any time from today's date."

"Aw-right…." Hesitantly I took the proffered pen as though it might be infested with loads of pathogenic germs, and signed the paper.

"Thank you, ma'am. Here's the keys. I'll see ya out…"

Still babbling, he went out into the hall, heading for the front door. I directed one last glance at the spruce, irreproachably well-kept little flat, furtively looked after the man to make sure he did not see me, and with a wicked grin closed a triumphant fist in the air.

**Haha, in real life the lessor always keeps the upper hand! What a nice change being able to take him in, even if it's only in fiction… ;-)**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	53. Chapter 53

Chapter fifty-three: Awakening

29th August 1887

"_My child I've drowned! It is true!/ _

_Was it not given to me and you?" Goethe's Faust_

Despite that first, relatively unstrained evening we spent together, the subsequent days saw a strange, awkward sort of shyness settling between Holmes and me. Perhaps it was the fact that I did many jobs usually done by Mrs. Hudson that reminded him of my basic function as a paid domestic. It was the way he sharply called me "Catherine!" when once cleaning, I broke some vial or test tube which made me feel like a better sort of housemaid – if better were then to mean bearing the master's child.

The incident left me more confused and daunted than it probably it should have, albeit he honestly tried to make up for it by means of particular kindness and attention. But though he was considerate and had assumed a habit of giving me costly little niceties rather than money, I could not ignore the sense of distance, of a significant difference he made between him and me, and it left me miserable. As a consequence, we sought to avoid one another, we left the house in turn and came back only when the coast was likely to be clear.

No doubt it was quite a sad and hideous comedy, but also very crucial. We could no longer be in one room together _without something definite to do_. It was alright to dine, and possibly have a little banter over my cookery, but as soon as I had cleared the table and perceived his fingers fiddling with his smokables, a sentiment of the most acute nervousness started to take possession of me, and I believed he experienced something similar. More than once had I excused myself under the flimsy pretense of a headache, and had left for a bed in which I could find no sleep.

I hated myself for casting away such god given opportunities of getting him to talk a little about himself, of getting closer to him, but I could not help myself, I was afraid. Of what, I knew not exactly. Perhaps I feared he might detect how intense my love for him was, how keen my desire to please him – but of course he had long done so, being who he was.

Or had he?

There was the baby, too. I could hardly bear his anxious enquiries after my condition, his admonishments for me not to drive myself too hard, for I knew exactly all this concern was not meant for me. His whole being and feeling had focused on the embryo, he was thinking of it incessantly. I could tell that by his furtive glances every time I happened to brush my stomach, even if it was in the most accidental fashion, and his frequent dreamy abstraction. The child which I had hoped to reinforce our bonds had in fact alienated us more than ever. As much as his thoughts dwelled on the kernel, they did not ever on the shell.

Or did they?

But it was not only he whose mind turned around the unborn babe. Mine did as well, though not in so cheerful a fashion as one might have expected. To tell the truth, I felt outright bad about it. It was not right that I should have it. A child ought to be born to parents devoted to it and to each other. That was how it was supposed to be. Of course, there were many children born to parents that had no great love for each other – but there was always a chance for the baby to be loved, to prosper; to grow in peace and felicity.

My child, however, was destined to something else. There were immense expectations and responsibilities awaiting it already, the entire weight of overweening hopes Holmes was projecting on it. The thought depressed me and gave me a feeling of inconceivable guilt. How would the little one ever be able to lead its own life? Would it not be owing to my fault if it were to become the failed existence I feared it would?

oooOOOooo

You may now think my feelings, or my expression thereof, exaggerated and slightly ludicrous. They were not. My apprehension was justified on Friday morning, when Holmes had gone out again in order to prepare himself for the lethal attack (at least this was what he purported), and I had taken down the washing I had dried in the kitchen, to protect it from the torrential rainfall.

Having ironed and laid everything, I returned Holmes' share of the washing to his closet. Just as I opened the metallized wing door, a sheet of paper fluttered down to the floor and I picked it up. I would hope to possess enough delicacy to have refrained from reading it – though I'm not quite sure on that point – but at any rate, the content was evident at first glance and of such a nature that I could not help running it over.

It went thus:

Sheridan Holmes – no limits

Year

First term

Second term

1

Raising awareness of the senses according to the de Lueur method. They constitute the detective's most important tools.

Enhancement of training + evaluation of success.

2

Raising awareness of the logical faculties. My own method developed on the basis of empiric data.

Combination of logic + sensual reception, for example for the distinction of different substances, smells etc.

3

Faculty of communication is now developing. First experiments on observation (select subjects of archetypical characteristics).

4

Observation expanded to exercises in logical inference.

5

Faculty of motion and speech now fairly well developed. First lessons in acting- important skill.

Rhetoric exercise, disguise & the art of dissimulation.

6

First lessons in self-defensive sports- vital skill. Study in the lay-out of London and the key figures of its underworld.

7

The same + courses in modern languages (always useful).

8

+ natural sciences and geography & their practical application.

9

+ criminology, with the help of case studies and the annals of crime.

10

+ jurisprudence.

On the very bottom of the sheet, he had written: _Discipline and no nonsense!_

This curriculum left me more disturbed than formerly. My anguish had not then been a chimera of the mind. I briefly wondered whether I could protest against this, whether my husband would hear me out if I ventured to object to his plan. But coward that I was, I just returned the draft to its depository and resolved not to mention it to Holmes. I was unlikely to get the better of him.

He had, after all, not even consulted me about the name.

oooOOOooo

"…an' then I got those from the shop in Ba'er Street, jus' because it was on the way ya knows, but if they don't fit or ya should not like 'em, I can go into town an' get different 'uns, and doin' so I could look in on _Cardinal&Hardford_ and find a new carpet ter cover the floor with, since yer not goin' ter do anything about it yerself an' ya'll catch a cold goin' barfoot an' – Natasha! What did I jus' say?"

With a great sigh, I put down the picture frames on my lap and strictly looked at Natasha's vacant profile, until she realized it and coloured slightly. "Oh, pardon me Kitty, I was lost in thought…"

"Yes, I can see that. Yer thoughts wouldn't concern a certain young neurologist in Shepard's Bush, by any chance?"

"I confess you are right." She got up restlessly, clasped her hands in front of her skirt and passed through the room, just to come back in a second. "Oh Kitty, you have met Dr. Levhin. Do you not think him a very serious, trustworthy young man? Did he not strike you as possessing a perfectly honest air?"

"Well, I hain't seen him fer long, but 'e's certainly charming, an' damned good-looking, too."

"He is, I know that. What I meant to ask you was: Does he not appear very respectable to you? Didn't you feel he was very decent and honourable?"

I sighed again. "Natasha, every man is not Baron Gruner. You need not be afraid o' formin' a new attachment jus' because you were unlucky once. What 'as 'appened, tell me? 'as 'e asked for yer hand in marriage?"

She tittered excitedly, twisting her fingers. "No, no. We are not so very intimate as you may imagine – at least not yet."

"Aha?" I cocked an eyebrow, signifying her to continue.

"Well I – I went into his study yesterday to say good bye, and he – he asked me to accept him as my suitor."

"Oh, excellent!" I clapped my hands together in my delight. "And did ya? Accept him, I mean?"

"I – yes, I confess that I did." Smiling modestly with her eyes averted, she reached out for my hands, in her subdues exhilaration twisting my fingers also.

"Oh, Natasha…."

"It doesn't mean much, of course. It's just a courtship."

"It means a lot!" I made her sit down with me, glad to have my hands restored to me. "This will change your whole life, an' it will change fer the best. 'e shall propose soon, I am quite sure!"

"We shall see." She retained her demure smile. "But what about you, Kitty? How are things for you at the moment?"

Her question confirmed my impression of great exultation. It is only utter bliss that makes an egocentric like Natasha interest herself in the life of others.

"The baby, ya means? Oh, it is quite awright up to now", I half-lied. " No trouble of any sort. An' confinement is still so far away, I can hardly contemplate it as something that's really goin' ter happen. No, I admit what makes me far more apprehensive is that after the weekend, I shall 'ave me first day at the Street Girls Mission. In fact, it makes me quite sick ter think o' it, anxious as I am not ter disappoint Mary."

"You won't, I'm sure", Natasha said with the full confidence of someone who has never found herself in a comparable situation. "I shall wish you good luck, and everything's going to go smooth. Monday, is it?"

"Yeah. Mary's goin' ter stay wiv me fer the first lesson, but nonetheless." Nervously, I patted my knees with my palms.

"You can do that, I know you can. When you did so many other and more difficult things – for me", Natasha said softly. "You've been so kind to me Kitty – no sister could be better. All the trouble you went through…"

"Don't mention it." I waved her away. "I'm jus' glad I 'ave ya livin' close by, only a stone's throw away from Baker Street. It'll save us lots o' time an' inconvenience. An' now ya can come easily ter visit. I'd very much like ter present ya to Mr.'olmes."

I must own this idea was not born from the sheer desire of having Natasha get out of her flat and among people. It would be more sincere to say that I wished for a third presence to take away our ill ease, which was an issue particularly in the evening. If Natasha were to come and dine with us sometimes, it would mean an immense relief for me.

But the girl looked doubtful suddenly. "I don't – I'm not sure I'm ready to go out as I used to, Kitty…"

"You're goin' out wiv Dr. Levhin."

"True. But this is quite different. I know Dr. Levhin so well but the idea of meeting someone entirely new is still…discomfiting. Please don't take offense, Kitty."

"I wouldn't." I patted her hand comfortingly. "Jus' take yer time honey, an' tell me when ye're ready."

**Boah, Holmes you sicko! Leave your family alone! Honestly, make any child submit to all of this and it's going to be burnt out at the age of six, or so…**

**Kitty shall have to scrape her guts together and try to do something about it. Otherwise, she'll be left with two psycho cases, an adult and a wee one. Gawd. I'm sorry to do this to her. But then – the story must go on! ;-)**


	54. Chapter 54

Chapter 54: The Edge of Reason

31st August 1887

"_Thou shalt renounce! Renounce shalt thou!/_

_That is the never ending song…" Goethe's Faust_

I spent so much time with Natasha and the outfitting of her new flat that the weekend seemed to be flying by, and before I realized it, Sunday night had come. I had thought no more about the Mission, but now, as I left Natasha to get home, the matter was resting heavily on my mind.

Tea with my friend was now some hours back, but I felt I would not be able to get one bite down, anyway. The prospect of what awaited me on the morrow caused me a physical nausea. Probably if I forced myself to eat, I would end up being sick.

Mr. Holmes was not yet at home when I arrived there; he was dining at the Holborn with his new client. I was lonely and had nothing to do. Bored and apprehensive at the same time, I flung myself on the sofa and listened to the rain on the street. _Whooosh_ went the wind around the house, and it howled in the chimney. _Plipp-Plopp_ said the drops that pattered against the window pane.

It was getting pretty cold indeed. I decided to re-light the fire. Assiduously messing with the poker and fire tongs, I botched the whole thing up completely and was too busy even to notice the chilly draft from downstairs which announced Holmes' return. He entered wrapped up in drenched layers of clothing, and without much circumference took the poker away from me.

"Hand it over Kitty, it is too freezing cold to be fussing over the fireplace pointlessly."

"Mr. Holmes! I – I didn't hear you come."

"Very likely not. You were positively engrossed in your predicament, though, I am bound to say, not successfully so."

He gave me a cool smile before he swiftly rid himself of his things as the little flames started to lick at the briquettes, and draped them over sofa and fender, scarf, overcoat, frock and all. I would have stopped to savour the sight of him as he worked silently; his slight trunk only dressed in the white linen shirt, loose sleeves softening the dour effect of his sinewy arms, and the fire reflecting its glow nicely on his austerely chiseled face, but decided against it for reasons of safety.

"There, that's better. In spite of all your domestic proficiencies, the art of fire-lighting is still subject to Mrs. Hudson's dominion."

He straightened, and, turning away from the fireplace where the flames where quickly growing in height and warmth, wiped his sooty hands with his handkerchief. Involuntarily, I reclined a little more into my corner of the couch. "No doubt, no doubt. Poor lady."

He did not even try to sit down. With skillful fingers stuffing his pipe, he stood in the middle of the room, a still frame of uneasy abidance. "Indeed, I regret her misfortune very much. You haven't had word from her, by any chance? Is there some indication as to when she'll be…back?"

"None, I fear."

There was some silence during which Holmes went to stand by the window and look out into the dreary night. Apparently he had forgotten about the pipe still unlit in his hand.

The flames had now reached a considerable height. The heat they emanated was excessive; it made me think about how my cheeks were probably very red, and I actually did not need that, for I knew I already looked everything but calm placidity. My breath went really quick, but of course my nerves were high strung by the thought of next morning.

Only… why could I not avert my eyes from his form? And why were my fingers trembling, so much that I could not even try to knit?

Because we were alone! Alone! All by ourselves!

I could not bear sitting still. I got up and made sure to move to the opposite end of the room. "I shall enquire after her by wire tomorrow." My fingers cramped into the fabric of my skirt. Never had I felt so fretful! "I would myself very much like to make sure about her condition."

There was not a sound to be heard as we stood with our backs turned on each other. I fiddled restively with my fingers.

Finally he put down his pipe on the window-sill. "It's still raining", he remarked superfluously.

"Yes", I replied, feeling incredibly stupid.

"Though we may safely assume Mrs. Hudson is better off where she is now", he observed.

"Yes, if she is as lucky with the weather as we were."

"I do not think we had one single cloudy day in Brighton."

"Now that you mention it – no, I think we hadn't." Turning around slowly, I observed him approach a little, in an almost haphazard fashion. Was it just my perception or was the heat from the fire constricting my head, affecting my ability to think clearly?

"Well, if somebody deserves a holiday and a little peace and bliss, it is certainly her", Holmes said. He hesitated in his motion, and then approached just a little more. My breath hitched with tremulousness. Something was going on though I failed to define it; something was definitely in the air.

I gazed up at him earnestly and apparently calm, though I felt my pulse quicken and my legs tremble. I had forgotten about his height; he towered over me as the shadow on the wall does over his owner. What was it about this man that made me feel so uncomfortable in his presence? How was it he had that effect on me?

"I'm sure everybody deserves it…now and then", I returned quietly.

He keenly peered down into my face. His eyes were warm and curious, they had little golden sparks in them, I noticed. "Are you?"

I felt ready to swoon. The lump seemed far too large for my throat, and I thought I was going to suffocate. My treacherous limbs threatened to give way any moment. The grace with which his arm slid around my midst to stabilize me almost tore my heart to pieces. He was so close…

"Positive", I breathed. My hand reached up to his face reluctantly, but it fell down at once. His expression was adamant. The barrier was insurmountable. I had probably just got into deep trouble. Or maybe I was mistaken?

It appears to be close to impossible for me to describe what happened next. I vaguely remember his fierce gaze and my hands seeking support at his person shortly before his mouth bit into mine hungrily. It overwhelmed me, made my senses drift apart. True, I had experienced many kisses in my earlier life, kisses of differing quality: Gentle ones, passionate ones, chaste and sensual kisses, but none quite like this one.

His was desperate. Tightly pressing me to his body, he invaded my mouth, not letting me go for the tiniest moment. His power was irresistible, like the might of water masses that have been pent up for too long, until the very crash of the barrage. He did not appear to run short of breath, nor did he give in to my feeble struggle for freedom, forcing my lips apart when necessary. I was frantic for air, but he did not relent in his demanding, all-encompassing conquest of me. My mind reeled. My conception was dimmed from lack of oxygen. I did not see him, did not hear the constant splashing of the rain against the outside of the window. We were like two people in the deep, dark sea, just he and I, embracing in a ferocious attempt at survival.

Only his teeth grazing my lips alerted me to a moment of inadvertency on his part, and with a gasp I tossed back my head, air filling my overstrained lungs. My dazed mind gradually cleared, and I was galvanized by the desire I realized he had incited in me.

"Mr. Holmes – oh, Mr. Holmes – oh, Mr. Holmes", I whimpered helplessly as his hands started to violently grasp and grope my waist. His sole response consisted in the re-capture of my mouth which he devoured even more savagely than previously. I had just arrived at the point where I felt as though I were consumed with lust, when he suddenly let go off me. Heavily breathing, I widened my eyes, just to see him recoil and pass a hand over his mouth as if he had burnt himself. We did not speak for one, two, three, four, five moments, until our rate of respiration had grown halfway back to normal.

"Pray excuse – I can't believe I – I'm so infinitely sorry", he uttered randomly, averting his gaze and blinking in a quick succession before he looked back at me with an air of being terrified that I was still there. "It is inexcusable of course – I can only give you my word of honour it will _not_ happen again."

Not trusting to my senses, I watched him cross over to the mantle, where he lit a cigarette with shaky hands. I could not allow this to happen. Indeed I could not, when we had come all this way!

"You mustn't", I ejaculated, rushing to his side and grasping his free hand. "You mustn't apologize, Mr. Holmes! I wanted – I wanted tha' kiss just as badly as you! Surely you could sense that…"

"No", he said firmly, but not unkindly, "do not say so. You must forget what occurred, my dear, you must erase it from your memory."

"I – I certainly couldn't – "

"You must", he repeated, gently disengaging his hand from mine and beginning to pace the hearth rug slowly. "I am aware", he said, breaking off and again passing his hand over his face where it had met mine. "I am well aware of what you expect", he continued, charily glancing back at me, "but it is more than I can allow for. I cannot pretend the….notion…were wholly without appeal to me. But it cannot be – ought not to be. You must see that this is so."

I shook my head, unflinchingly looking at him. "No, I do not understand you at all. What could be wrong with something that pleases some and harms none?" He stared at the floor consequently, with knit brows drawing at his cigarette. "Why are you like this?" I muttered, crestfallen, "Why must you always make things so difficult?"

"Ah, I cannot expect you to understand, Kitty. Errant as you are, there is a more profound innocence in you than could ever be in me – since your ignorance absolves you from your iniquities."

"How can you say that! My feelings are perfectly ordinary. It is you – your constant refusal – that is abnormal! "

"What do I care what you consider normal!" he vociferated. "I have no desire to be normal! I have always been more than that, further elevated from the norm than you could imagine in your narrowness. It is something else that I wish to be: Reason! Clear, incorruptible reason, the one thing to distinguish me from the wild beast! Do you think it pleases me to be confined to this fallacious human frame, to be the game-point of its every whim and little ache? How I hate to think of it! Which dignified being with any wisdom at its disposal would accede to being reduced to this revolting, misbegotten triumph of the primitive urges?"

"So, that is how you feel about it."

"Indeed! Have you any idea what this odious body does to me, craving for what in my heart of hearts I detest and decline?"

"And yet", I said quietly, "you crave for it."

"You cannot reproach me with that, Kitty."

"No indeed, I wouldn't."

"It is an inherent trait of our inferior human nature."

"It is perfectly innocent, your wry notions notwithstanding."

"Pray hear me out!" He demanded. With a deep sigh, he shook his head and smiled ruefully. "I already said I do not expect you to understand me. Let me try another way to at least make you comprehend my view a little, and resign to it. I take it you believe in God?"

"What if I do?"

"You might get my meaning better on this level." He gave me a lopsided smile that for some reason infuriated me. Talk, all this man ever did was talk! "As a Christian, you would have to agree with me that what you contemplate is an execrable misdeed, wouldn't you? What I mean is; you are pregnant already. Would it not be incompatible with your beliefs if we lived together in sin?"

"Sin!" I could not believe what I heard. "You ignore the meaning of yer very words! Do you want to 'ear what a sin is, in my opinion?"

He gazed at me blankly. I reciprocated his glare with feverish agitation.

"A sin is to scheme in cold blood the siring of a child for a definite purpose, without love, without passion even, just to one's own selfish ends! It is to calculate its hereditary disposition, not to leave it to choose its own way in life! It is to go against nature! A sin was what we did all along! And if I am to be guilty, the guilt solely consists in my agreement to the execution of this abhorrent, this heinous plan!"

He still was staring at me. I felt warm tears stream down my cheeks as I met his eyes, black with chagrin and regret. "What have we done?" I stammered. "Sweet Lord in heaven, what have we done? It was a shame – oh, it was evil!"

Again, his arm slipped around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder, shaken as if by an invisible hand. "Hush, my poor girl. It was never your fault. It was my scheme, my purpose. The fault, if there has ever been any, is mine entirely. I took the responsibility from the start."

Looking up at him though my vision was dimmed by tears, I protested: "No, that could never be. You cannot alone take responsibility for a child we made together. We both are accountable for everything that may come from the arrogance of this undertaking. I'll be its mother and therefore responsible…you can do nothing to change that." I nestled closer against him. "But do not think I would despair of that, because I wouldn't if I only knew you were sticking by me. There is nothing I would not do for you. Nothing I wouldn't give; even if it meant the violation of all that I regard as right. I so want to see you happy…I do…"

My lips sought his, but this time he did not get involved with me, withdrawing quickly. "Kitty, if you really wish for my happiness, please leave me my peace of mind, I beg you! Do not tempt me into doing what I know I shall regret! You say the worst harm has been already done, but by Jove, I know better!"

He turned away, flinging his cigarette into the fireplace. My lips trembled. "You can't mean it!"

"I do!" he re-turned swiftly, passing a hand over his temple as if to ease a terrible headache. "I do. But did _you_ mean what you said, Kitty? Would you do anything for me?"

"Please don't ask that!" I muttered, anticipating his demand.

"I must. How are we to go on, otherwise? Should I send you away in order to save my soul, my sanity?"

"No!" I stammered, "I implore you, no!"

"Then promise! Promise you won't make us unhappy! Don't look at me like that! Don't approach me! Don't try my self-command – I can't trust myself!"

"I cannot possibly promise that. I shall certainly do my best…"

"Promise that, at least!"

"I shall…try my best."

"Thank you." He was audibly relieved.

My head lowered, I reached for his hand, and he did not withdraw it. We stood silent and motionless by each other for a moment. Then he said: "My repentance is beyond comparison Kitty. If only…I had known…nothing of this would ever have happened. Even now that I'm on the verge of reaching my aim, I'd make everything undone– for your sake. I hope you'll forgive me someday."

I shook my head lightly. "There's nothing for me to forgive." Letting go off his hand, I wiped my tearstained face with my knuckles and made for the door. I was tired, all of a sudden.

"Kitty!"

I halted. "Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"I meant what I said."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

And I finally went upstairs into my room – leaving him in peace.

**Urgh goddammit. I've been rewriting this chapter at least once a month ever since I started the story, and still I'm not satisfied with it. Well it's never perfect. I hope you enjoyed it, nonetheless, and keep up your thumbs for Kitty and her hopeless case!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	55. Chapter 55

Chapter fifty-five: Dance on the Volcano

1st September 1887

"_I am too old to be content with play/ _

_too young to be without desire." Goethe's Faust_

I felt definitely sick and ill when on the morrow, Mary led me past many closed doors behind which the buzz of young voices was to be heard, occasionally predominated by the drone of an adult one. The passage somehow seemed to narrow the further we went, until it all came down to one exceptionally sinister and menacing door that formed a _cul-de-sac_ to the hallway.

I breathed deeply so as to calm myself. As Mary opened the door and held it open for me, my mind was busy construing an image to go with the impressions I had received, an image of trim, well-kempt young women, earnestly sitting in neat rows and gazing ahead to where I appeared in their view –

"Hiya! 'ave a butcher's everyone, it's the new 'un!"

"Oy! 'ave a care. You've upset the inkwell, look! Now I've got the mess on me dinky doos."

"Nah it wan't me!"

"Sure was. You daft cow!"

"Eh, wotcher missus! Jus' step this-a-way or ya'll bodge yer things wiv ink as well."

A wiry, dark little girl dashed past me, turning around and prancing on tiptoes briefly as she indicated the dark blue stream which saturated the rug on the floor. Open- mouthed, I looked about.

The room was bursting with children, all girls between ten and fifteen years. They somewhat deviated from the black clad junior nuns I had pictured. Some of them did not even wear stockings, though the weather insisted on having a pernicious influence on people's health.

"That'll do now!" Mary called them to order. "I have brought your new handiwork instructor, Mrs. Holmes. Mrs. Holmes will teach you some easy basic stitching today, and I'll be next doors, in case you should fancy making a riot of some sort. Keep that in mind!"

She unlocked a small cupboard and extracted a supply of different materials, needles and yarns.

"What's yer name?" I asked the dark little girl, who, despite all efforts, had blotched up her clothes. A blue smear adorned her fawn coloured pinafore.

"It's Gemma", she replied in what was quite a strong firm voice for so delicate a person, "an' those are Sadie an' Gladys. Ya won't need the names o' the others, they're the lame 'uns." Her dark eyes glinted devilishly, but I could discern the pun was not intended to hurt anyone's feelings. They were certainly good-natured children.

Mustering some sternness, I returned: "That may be so, young lady, but I think I should like ter know all o' yer names. Ya could each write 'em down on a slip o' paper…."

"No", Mary interrupted equanimously, "paper shortage. All we have to use is blackboards and chalk, currently."

"Awright." I was a little taken aback. "We shall get a blackboard then, an' ya can write them down on it…"

"Nothing doing", Mary objected cheerfully, "they can't spell."

"I see." This was getting more complicated than I would have thought. "I'll jus' 'aver ter learn then, I'll wager. Gemma, Sadie, an', uh, Gladys. Rest are the lame 'uns."

There was a general cheer in appreciation of my quick grasp. Mary, re-locking the cupboard, murmured: "Do you think I can safely leave you alone with them?"

"Yes", I assured her, slightly surprised by my own heroism, "go ahead."

"Goodie good. Listen children! One sound to permeate these walls, one single complaint from Mrs. Holmes here, and you'll get the detention of your lifetime out of it. Did I make myself understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am!" the girls chorused. My friend gave me a fleeting grin.

"So long then. Knock if you need anything. First door on the right."

And thus she left me, surrounded by children and heaps of canvas and coloured thread. I cast a look into my audience. They were quiet for a moment, curious about what was to follow.

"Right", I said offhandedly, "Everyone grab a piece o' canvas an' a needle. Go fer it!"

There was a great commotion as all tried simultaneously to get hold of the best stuff, and I suddenly felt a tug at my jacket when wiry little Gemma passed me by.

"Ey! Hand that over!"

For the girl had in her fist several little flasks she had retrieved from my inner pocket with the skill of a professional pickpocket. But she did not dream of obeying. Slipping out of my reach, she uncorked one of the vials and sniffed at it. "That smells great. Yes, by cripes! It smells like lavender!"

"Gemma!" I said strictly. "Those are me smellin' salts an' I should prefer that you restore them ter me this moment. Otherwise, I'm afraid I shall 'aver ter inform Mrs. Watson, who no doubt will be as good as 'er word."

Extremely reluctant, my salts were returned to me.

"Why'd ya need those?" Gemma suddenly wanted to know. "My grandmother uses 'em. It's against 'er asthma. But yer not sick!"

She eyed me with suspicion suddenly, as though I might somehow have wormed my way into the classroom upon false pretenses. The other girl's eyes were upon me too, and I felt there was an urgent need for some explanation.

"Nah – I am not actually sick. Not in the strict sense o' the word. It's more like – ya knows – the state nature imposes on most o' us women, sooner or later."

They still stared at me with open mouths, and I began to think that I had not really brought my point home, when the girls called Gladys suddenly exclaimed: "Holy cricket! She's in the family way!"

A great gasp circulated around the room, and I smiled weakly. "That's about what it is, I guess."

I knew I should not have owned up so easily, for without a moment's notice, I saw myself assailed with questions.

"When's the baby goin' ter come? Ye're not fat as was that woman as lives next doors!"

"Is it a boy or a girl? What's its name?"

"Hush, now!" I admonished them. "It's not the topic on our schedule terday. Please taike a piece o' canvas each, an' supply yerself wiv a bit o' thread. We're goin' ter do the cross stitch first. It's very simple…"

I saw the long faces around me, sighed deeply and said: "Ye're goin ' ter do the stitch on yer canvas, in rows o' twenty times two. Whosoever achieves ten rows properly done shall 'ave a treat next lesson. What d'ye want it ter be? Sweets? Crayons?"

For a moment there was a profound silence filled with thought. Finally, Gemma jerked up her head with the insolent glittering eyes. "I want 'em smellin' salts!"

oooOOOooo

"Well, that was not too bad!" Cheerfully, I took my seat next to Mary. It was our lunch break and we had withdrawn to the modest little tearoom a little up the street. _Buszard_ was the name.

"Indeed not! I must say you seemed to hold them pretty much at bay. Hardly a sound to be heard in the next room!" She winked encouragingly.

"Oh, you know…" Glorying in my own success, I sipped on my rooibos tea, with my free hand effacing days in my pocket almanac, namely the days that had passed since annunciation.

"So, have you heard from Mrs. Hudson?" Mary enquired when I had finished my task.

"I have, yes. Though I suppose yer news are fresher than mine."

"That's well possible."

I sighed and put down my cup. "Oh dear, Mary. You and John attended to 'er so touchingly….an' she's not even yer landlady, but ours."

"It was nothing, dear. John remembers her fondly from the days of his bachelorhood. Naturally he wanted to see her well taken care of."

"Yeah, but I'm ashamed we did so little to help her - "

"Tut, tut. You were ailing yourself, Kitty. If somebody had not overstrained himself on her behalf, then that would be Mr. Holmes."

"That's not fair!" I felt my brow clouding. "'e was very occupied jus' then. It would 'ave been my responsibility ter see to it. 'e jus' 'ad no time ter spare…."

"Does he ever?"

"Well p'raps not, but o' course 'e 'as so many calls on his person…"

"Honestly, Kitty!" Mary was clearly annoyed. "Why do you always, _always_ have to come to his defence? Devotion and all that is very well, but it should not blur your vision!"

I scowled. "You know well you look down on us!"

"No, indeed we don't!" she seemed seriously dismayed. "What a strange idea!"

"Don't you deny it! Do ye think I hadn't noticed how both o' you shun Baker Street since Mrs. 'udson 'as gone down south? It was hardly to be missed!"

She inclined towards me, visibly distraught. "Listen, Kitty…."

"You know what I do not understand? Why are ya still sittin' here wiv me so easily, when John 'as cut Mr. 'olmes outta his life completely? It seems hardly fair. You have jus' as much to reproach _me_ with."

"Oh nonsense, Kitty! What would we have against you?"

"You know what!" I glowered at her, but had to lower my eyes as I went on: "Neither he nor I could boast your moral standards. We are more of the pragmatic stock, both o' us. I beg ya ter keep that in mind. I can understand that….from yer point of view…what we did was damnable. Perhaps ye're right ter be disgusted wiv us. However – "

Appalled, Mary shook her head. "Both of you? Now, please! How could you be to blame for what happened? Why would you accuse yourself of _his _selfish heartlessness?"

I knit my brows. "Why, whatcha mean? 'e married fer a child, I fer the money an' social status. We both emerge wiv precious little credit from the entire affair. But we thought nothing of it. We meant no harm…"

"Oh…that…yes…." Mary muttered. She seemed a trifle confused. I screwed my eyes at her.

"Mary? That _was_ the reason for their falling out – wasn't it?"

"Why, of course", she confirmed hurriedly.

"Or is there….something else?" I persisted. My eyes were riveted on her, and she appeared to be quite uncomfortable with that, for she broke eye contact.

"Nothing, of course. That was the reason alright."

But little did I did believe her.

oooOOOooo

I did not see Holmes before several days. He had gone away on demand of his client – or so he said – while I suspected he had just exacted his vanishing act habitual whenever a quarrel or awkward situation had had its way. Be that as it may, he was back one evening in the midst of the week, and, having received a telegram to forewarn me about his return, I was waiting up for him with a warm supper, and a fire was crackling underneath the mantle.

He was eating while I meticulously dried his things, but refused answering my question as to what he had been doing and where. "It's no use asking Kitty, I've been bound to silence. Every detail I might slip in an attempt to paraphrase my experiences could mean an indiscretion violating my client's justified faith in me. However, I perceive you have been keeping busy whilst I was away. Southern London, eh? The exact knowledge of soils still proves to be of use once in a while."

"Ye're right", I conceded, putting down his gloves in close proximity to the fire and sitting down opposite to him at the table. "I 'ave helped Mary a little, lookin' after the children of her charity project."

"Ah, that business of hers. Well, it is most laudable on your part to have tried to be of assistance."

I sensed he was trying to pull my leg, but he did not succeed in confusing me. "It was nice – I see so li'le of her lately. It must 'ave been quite a while since the last time."

"Indeed." He did not further respond to that, so I added: "We had some little chat 'bout Watson, she and I."

"And how is he doing?" His face was placid, uninterested, but it was a mask that could be put on and taken off at will.

"Oh, fine. He's doing fine." I took one of the spoons and held it against the light as if to look whether I had polished it properly. "Which reminds me…it's about time I saw 'im, don't you think? About the baby, I mean…"

"Yes I – I think you had better do that." He rose with some impetuousness. "Well, I have work to do Kitty – but thank you for the dinner."

"You're welcome." Pensively I watched him sit down at his bureau, no doubt to record his latest case.

I took some time clearing the table. "Would ya like anything else, Mr. Holmes? A glass of port, perhaps?"

"Pardon? Oh, yes please. A cup of coffee would be most welcome, if it is not too much trouble", he muttered, distraught.

"You ought not to drink coffee in the evening! It'll keep sleep away," I berated him, but there was no answer. Probably he was too deep into his work already, with no intention of sleeping anytime this night.

"Very well…" I carried all the crockery downstairs into the kitchen and prepared a cup of coffee, asking the maid to do the washing up.

"That would then be everything, thank you."

Returning to the study and carefully keeping out Ginger Jack, I placed the cup on top of a stack of books next to where his nervous white hand was scribbling busily.

"What is it?" His pen came to a stop and he looked up at me, most bewildered.

"Yer coffee", I explained patiently, "You asked fer it not five minutes ago."

"Did I, now?" He was honestly bemused.

I laughed heartily. "Mr. Holmes!"

He blinked, trying to sober himself. "Forgive me. Of course you are right. I got – distracted."

Slightly shaking his head, he returned to his paper, apparently oblivious to me whom I was still standing next to his chair, looking at him in wonder. What was it that had distracted him so? I would have given much to know.

His chestnut hair was gleaming in the faint light from the fireplace. It enchanted me, teased me, dared me to touch it with my hand, but I knew I would not be able to do it without his taking notice. But his shoulder, perhaps? Surely, if I touched him very lightly, he would not feel it through these layers of clothes? Very cautiously, I did it. His writing became almost imperceptibly slower, but was far from ceasing. Was it safe to go on?

Tentatively stroking my hand down his spine, I moved a little closer. He inhaled skittishly, but after a second or two resumed his writing. I placed my other hand on his shoulder blade, caressing him lightly, innocently. His hand was indeed growing very irregular in its movement. I bent over him and kissed the top of his head. It was the most wonderful sensation. Would he allow - more?

_Your promise!_ A little voice said in my head, but in fact the promise given only three days ago seemed so much farther away as my hands gained in swiftness and courage. A pen fell to the table top with what seemed like a loud clatter as I dropped to my knees and smoothed my burning lips to his throat. _Kitty…don't…_

I did not even know whether it was his voice or the one in my head, but really I could not care less. Fuelled by some primordial instinct of devouring, I sucked the thin, sensitive skin between my teeth, biting him gently. A low moan. Low, but perceptible to my lips which sensed the vibrations of his larynx. I whined softly. My hands, having long trailed over the summit of his shoulders, slipped down and below the line of his shirt….

It was just then, this same moment, that there were steps on the stairs outside. Holmes could not have moved quicker if his life had depended on it. Jumping to his feet and taking a step away from me, he assumed a pose of mildly astonished boredom when the page boy entered the room. I had risen, and stood with my back to the bureau, hands insecurely fingering its edge.

"Billy! I – I thought I had told you and the maid to retire."

"Your pardon madam. It would appear you have a visitor. Should I say you are at home?"

"Well – yes, by all means."

Billy left us. With pleading eyes though I sought forgiveness for my conduct from my husband, there was little to be hoped from his icy stare. "I'll go to sleep now", he told me harshly. "Good night."

"Mr. Holmes…wait…"

But within the twinkling of an eye, the bedroom door had closed shut behind him, and my visitor was shown in to the chamber.

**Cockney:**

**Dinky doos – shoes**

**To bodge – to mess up**

**Hiya!**

**We're progressing! Haha yes we are. Little…tiny...bit. **

**But what about Mary Watson? We know there is still a secret that had perhaps better be kept from Kitty. **_**Will**_** she be able to keep it to herself? Or will Kitty learn how little importance Holmes attached to her life, and be devastated?**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	56. Chapter 56

Chapter fifty-six: Hard Times

3rd September 1887

„_The woe of human lot lays hold on me." Goethe's Faust_

My thoughts were so upset and my nerves wrought that I was at a loss first as to who the earnest young girl on my door step might actually be. But the daze of my brain cleared away gradually and a broad smile relaxed my face. "Fanny!"

"Aunt Cathy! Thank God ye're at 'ome!" Uttering a strange sound, half laugh, half sob, she leaped into my arms. "I'm so glad! I di'n't know what I should do!"

"Now look 'ere, it's awright. Sit down…"

Only now that I could regard her from a little distance, it became clear to me how much Fanny had grown during the summer. She was wearing her hair up, I noted.

"Oh auntie, it's so awful!" she sniveled. "I can' stand muvver any longer. She's ta'en to the bottle ever since father returned and went away again, an' one ne'er knows quite how to approach her. It frightens the hell outta me – outta all o' us!"

"Slowly, dear." I sat down beside her, watching her minutely. "Whatcha mean, since yer father returned? You forget I know nothin' of the matter."

"Well – yeah – 'e came ter bring Susan back. You remember, she 'ad bolted wiv 'im. An' 'e stayed a month or more. But then muv an' 'e had a terrible fight – 'bout me."

"About you, darling?"

"Oh-huh, right. 'e wanted me ter go off wiv 'im this time, but muvver wouldn't 'ave it. She opposed ter it – 'e beat 'er within an inch o' her life, 'e did. Hit the road that same night, an' we hain't heard of 'im since. An' muv, she – well, she seems ter think it's my fault, somehow. Keeps me locked up like a prisoner, most o' the time, gives me the most frightful treatment. I could escape terday, when muv was in the kitchen, talkin' to Mrs. Nextdoor, an' 'ad forgotten about me."

"Dear me…" appalled, I stroked my hand over her round little head. "But why should she be cross wiv ya, can you tell? D'ye think it's the booze?"

"I dunno. Yeah, partly it is, I wager."

"Did you agree to come wiv yer father, perhaps?"

"No, I didn't want to. Nobody wanted it but father. Muv struggled against it, seen' as Susan 'as ne#er been the same since 'e returned her to us."

A cold shudder was running down my spine. "How d'ye mean?"

"Well, ya knows the way she used ter be loud an' obstreperous – but nothin' like that lately. Most o' the time, she jus' sits wiv a blank face, an' ne'er responds when ya tries ter talk to 'er."

I inhaled sharply. "Where's yer father now, d'ye know?"

She shrugged her thin shoulders. "Miles away, mos' likely. Ne'er to return, 'e said."

"Good thing, too", I muttered grimly.

"Yeah, but it upset muvver so. We hain't had a quiet hour wiv 'er since."

"She ought to be relieved. At the very least, 'is absence for 'er means no more beatings an' no more li'le chavies."

"Why, how d'ye know 'bout the chavies?" Her innocent look was one of genuine confusion. Apparently, she failed to make a connection.

"Never mind." I sighed. Annie had not even managed to explain that to her. Stupid old Annie. Poor, unhappy old Annie. "As it 'appens, there'll be no shortage, I'm wiv a li'le chap meself. Don't suppose you knew it?"

"No, not I." She shook her little head, eyes big like saucers.

"Well, how could you. It's not as though I an' yer mother were on news exchange terms."

She run me over with an expert glance. "Gonna be a while yet, ain't it?"

"Quite a while, yes."

"Oh, Aunt Cathy!" she suddenly sobbed and threw herself into my arms again. "Please don't forget me when you 'ave a chile o' yer own!"

"Never, I couldn't."

"You been too busy to see us though it's not even 'ere, an' we'd 'ave needed ya so badly…"

"Hush!" I patted her, putting my index to my lips and drowning out my pangs pf conscience. "Mr. 'olmes is tryin' ter sleep next doors. Ya'll wake 'im!"

oooOOOooo

We decided to withdraw to my room. I saw well that Fanny was in no shape to go home this night, and determined to let her stay. Her descriptions of Annie's behaviour sounded authentic and painfully familiar, but it irked me that the girl repeatedly referred to herself as a prisoner and her home as a prison. After all, she was talking to someone who had spent eight months in gaol, and much as I would hate to live under one roof with Annie, something inside of me was up in arms against the comparison.

Of course it was not right that she should treat her children so, but at least she had prevented the worst in keeping Fanny under lock and key! I had always thought precious little of Grahame, her husband, and drink certainly was an apt force to bring out the lowliest side to his character. If he were to return to the neighbourhood, I would perhaps have to ask Mr. Holmes for help to keep the family safe.

But I refrained from telling Fanny this, and also I did not burden her with recollections of real-life gaol experiences. Instead, I let her run off to rejoin her old playtime companions, Ginger Jack and Grimesby the wax dummy, while I prepared my bed to accommodate two persons tonight. We needed a second pillow, and a second duvet. Both were to be found in a wall-closet next to my desk.

As I accidentally dropped a pillow slip, I noticed the shards of my mantle clock which I had hurled against the bureau, still lying underneath it on the floor. Picking them up and running my fingertips over the wooden splinters, I realized it was beyond repair. The dial had split in two, and the clockwork was hopelessly damaged.

"Auntie! Auntie! Auntie!" like the bird from a cuckoo clock, Fanny was calling for me, and I deposited the debris on the table and went to look for her.

"What's the matter? Be quiet child, I told ya Mr. 'olmes was sleepin'."

"Well I – " she paused on my threshold. "I don't 'ave a nighty, that's what."

"'ere ya 'ave one of mine. Ya needs ter get ready quickly now; its well past yer usual hour, I imagine. Go go, get on yer pins!"

We were installed in bed at the hour of ten. Fanny snuggled against me, already having forgotten about the trouble at home, happy to have given her mother the slip for once. "But whatcha think we're goin' to do about her, auntie? D'ye think she'll send the police to taike me away from you?"

"Heaven's forefend! I shall bring ya back 'ome tomorra, of course. But don't worry, I shall talk t'yer mother an ever'thing's gonna work out fine. We're gonna find a solution."

"If on'y I didn't need ter live wiv 'er!" Fanny sighed.

"You mustn't be so ungrateful, darling. It's hard in these times to bring up so many kids all on yer own. Yer mother doesn't lead an easy life – an' she loves you an' yer brethren very much. But you 'ave a point, it would be fer the best if you 'ad a li'le more distance between yerselves – "

I observed the hopeful glint in her round eyes and quickly turned in: "Um, perhaps if ya went to school, honey? That'd mean at least half the day away from yer mum. Yer relations would sure benefit from that – as would yer education, o' course."

"I'm not sure…" she uneasily moved beneath the blanket. "I hain't been in a school so long – where could I even dare to apply? I can't properly spell or anythin'."

"You can read very nicely, an' ye're clever wiv the needle. I'm certain we'll be able to do something about that." I smiled at her and briefly passed my hand over her forehead before I extinguished the light. "Good night, darling."

But Fanny was far from being ready to sleep. "D'ye think father'll be back, Auntie?"

"I cannot tell. If he does return, we'll come up with an idea 'ow to deal wiv 'im. Now shut yer eyes for a while, dear."

I could hear a blissful sigh before she gave me a tight squeeze and rolled over to her side of the bed. "I think I shall never marry myself", she mumbled contentedly, and dropped into a light doze. I remained silent.

My eyes stood full of tears as I peered into the darkness. I thanked heaven on my knees that Fanny had come here, rather than wander off aimlessly, but still I felt regret gnawing on my soul when I contemplated what might have been if she had not.

oooOOOooo

I took care the next morning to take her down only when I was sure Holmes had left the house, fearing that he might be angry with me again. Fanny was terribly disappointed.

"Why can't I see Mr. 'olmes? I so wanted ter say 'ow d'ye do to him."

"Next time, hon. You must come an' visit us."

"Would if I could!" she griped. I sighed.

"I promised I would talk t'yer mum about that, an' I will, don't be afraid. She won't keep ya – can't keep ya. Besides, it ain't so rosy an' cheerful 'ereabouts all o' the time, neither. You remember that trip to the zoo?"

But curiously, Fanny would only remember what had been droll and enjoyable about the day. "I liked them camels. Mr. 'olmes knew awfully 'bout their nature an' origin. When shall we go again to see them camels?"

"Very soon, honey. Oh! Talking of camels…" Rummaging around, I had found the baby blanket I had finished, but had forgotten about. "Hopefully li'le Nicholas hain't outgrown 'is perambulator already?"

"No, o' course not. Thanks Auntie."

I regarded her hesitantly. "Well then…shall we?"

She gave me a resolute look from her round, greyish pebble eyes. "We shall."

oooOOOooo

"Annie?"

She did not look well, not at all. The greatest part of her vacuous, pasty face was hidden behind a large tartan handkerchief, and the rest of her seemed hardly better. The eye that could be seen blinked at me venomously.

"So, it's to you that the li'le slut 'as gone. I should of known it. A nice pair ya makes, re'lly!"

Yes, great. Thank you. "May we come in?"

"Step into the kitchen", Annie muffled, glaring at her daughter one-eyed.

The mess in the room and the smell were even worse than on my last visit. Obviously Annie was everything but coping. Little Nicholas lay crying in his cot, and Fanny was glad to be sent away to attend to him.

"I jus' wanna tell ya from the start", my sister snorted through her enormous hanky, "if ya thinks ya can lead my daughter astray, ye're mistaken. We don't need no more disasters like yerself in the fambly. She'll 'ave nothin' to do wiv yer painting folks, un'erstand me?"

I groaned impatiently. "Listen, Annie…"

"I mean it! She won't 'ave nothin' ter do wiv 'em. So stop puttin' ideas into 'er stupid li'le 'ead! Don't tell 'er 'ow she's lookin' so beautiful an' stuff. We got enough trouble 'ere awready."

I laughed shortly. "Ya sounds as if I had tried ter steal yer daughter! She came to me 'ouse, remember. I di'n't taike 'er away or anythin'."

"Well, bring 'er back immediately next time, the li'le brat. I really wanna put 'er o'er my knee - "

"No, Annie!" I had grasped her wrist, and she looked at me with surprise. "Ya won't lay a single finger on yer children in future, 'cause if you do, it won't be me takin' them away, but the youth care people!" I stared at her keenly. "Ya don't want that, Annie!"

"Leave me alone!" She jerked her hand to get her wrist free.

"'un more thing." I withdrew my hand, but did not cease to keep my eyes fixed on her. "I want yer daughters to attend school. I know where an' how, an' it's not gonna cost you a shillin'. No, 'ear me out, it's not puttin' ideas in their 'eads! It's a plaice fer girls jus' like 'em, an' worse off fer the most part. Some o' them don't even 'ave a home. I want them to learn somethin', all o' them! Fanny an' Susan, too! Because…because…if they don't, they're draned likely to end up like me – or you."

"Leave me alone", Annie repeated. She sounded exhausted, her voice trembled. "Go away!"

I hesitated, and then inclined towards her, across the table. "Why're ya holdin' that hanky to yer face, Annie? Taike it down. Show me…"

A tear suddenly rolled down from behind the ludicrous giant-tartan. Annie rose so fiercely the table almost toppled over.

"You stupid, conceited cow!" she sobbed. "Go away!"

She rushed out of the kitchen. I cupped my face with both hands, breathing deeply.

"Aunt Cathy?" Fanny was suddenly standing behind me. "Don't be sad, Aunt Cathy. Please?"

"No, of course not." I pulled myself together and smiled at her.

"Look, Aunt Cathy! 'e likes 'is new blanket!" she nodded at the baby cot, where Nicholas had stopped blurting out his unease.

"Good. That's good." Absent minded, I trailed my hand over Fanny's narrow back, caressing her comfortingly. "I shall be glad when he's a bigger boy. What's a-missin' here is a man. Not a man like yer father, I means. Not like yer other brothers neither, their heads are full o' moonshine."

We laughed quietly together. "I wished our uncle were 'ere", Fanny said suddenly. "Say, why's 'e never comin' ter stay?"

"He can't, cloth ears. He's second in command now on 'is ship."

"Meanin'?"

"Meanin' that in the foreseeable future, 'e'll be appointed captain; an' 'ave all the responsibility fer the Capetown-Mauritius line."

"Cor." Fanny frowned. "Well, 'e could show 'is mug 'ereabouts sometime, all the same."

"Yes." I passed my hand over her hair, smiling briefly. "Yes, he could."

**Cockney: **

**Get on your pins – hurry up**

**Cloth ears – non-listener**

**Ha, obviously it's not only Holmes who has an abominable family. Like always, Kitty is beleaguered by problems that are nor strictly speaking her own. But of course, blood is thick than water, and she could hardly say no if her people need help. **

**What about her own problems, then? Will they sink into the chaos, or be faced and resolved?**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	57. Chapter 57

Chapter 57: Forgive us our trespasses…

4th September 1887

"_Eritis sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum." Goethe's Faust_

My thoughts dwelled on Fanny for a great part of the next day. But I thought also of Annie. I was genuinely sorry for her. She had always deemed herself the more successful out of us, as a wife and mother with her own little ménage.

Now, however, her marriage was in shards, and her husband had bolted, leaving her with perturbed children and a face unfit to be shown in public. It was surely hard on her, on her pride. No wonder she experienced my interference into her affairs as meddling.

Holmes had gone off, but he did that so often lately that I did no longer wonder about his whereabouts. There was enough in the household to keep me busy after I returned from school, so the slam of the door was quite unexpected when around seven, I sat by the fireside, working on the christening robe wherefore I had bought the materials earlier in the week.

It was the most beautiful bright damask with white ribbons of _crèpe-de-soie_, and I was embroidering the seams with little blue flowers. The pattern was so intricate that the power of my eyes did not suffice, and I needed to enhance it with one of my husband's magnifying glasses, which made the work process all the more cumbrous. Thus, I was glad about the interruption brought about by Holmes, who was shaking out his umbrella on the landing before he entered the room.

"Mr. Holmes!" I put my things aside and rose. "Will the weather never change? You must have been cold on yer way home. Should I ring for tea?"

He shook his head wordlessly. A subtle motion indicated his intention to sit down by the fire, but then he seemed to have second thoughts about it. Apparently, my conduct of the previous evening had not been forgotten. I reclined one step, almost sullenly raising my hands, palms upturned, as if to signify I had no mischief in mind. Giving me a long, evaluating look, he sat down on the sofa, and I re-settled in my chair at a safe distance.

"You're a quick worker", he observed after some minutes of silence. "This garment was nothing but a loose collection of sections some days ago."

"I been workin on't every free moment", I returned, pleased by his praise. "But it needs some doin' over – the subtleties, ya knows."

"The subtleties. Exactly." He sighed, settling back on the couch, and stared into the fire, as though his mind was much preoccupied and my words not actually received as they had been intended.

"What about _your_ work?" I enquired tentatively after some more minutes had elapsed. "What sort o' case can lure you outta the shelter of the 'ouse into this deluge?"

When he did not reply immediately, I asked further: "Are ya still workin' for that chap who made ya go away until yesterday? Or is that all finished an' done with?"

"It is not." He flashed me a penitent glance. "To tell the truth, the occupation I indicated is not the exact one. You would be correct to assume the case is a complicated one…quite out of the ordinary, one might say…"

He passed one hand though his hair, still wet with rain. I regarded him minutely. He seemed strangely unsettled, distracted, as though something was weighing heavily on his mind.

"Are you quite alright, Mr. 'olmes?" I asked softly.

"Certainly…it's just…this case…naturally, personal considerations ought not…" he rambled incoherently before biting his lips. His words died.

It worried me. I had seldom seen him so dismayed. "Mr. Holmes?"

He still was staring into the flames, until with a shake of the head he forced himself back into the present. "I am so sorry. What did you just say?"

I gazed at him with a frown. "Mr. Holmes, what…?"

He closed one hand to a fist and pressed it against his face, inhaling deeply before he spoke. "It won't do, indeed it won't. I need to talk to someone. Kitty, I can, can I not, without reserve trust to your loyalty and discretion?"

I was utterly taken aback. Rarely had such words passed between us – such openness. But apparently, this week was the season of candour. "You can, of course. You know that you can."

He nodded. "It is well, for I must confide in you what; if kept to myself; would be likely to disturb the balance of my thoughts. The matter, as it is, concerns my brother, and therefore secrecy is vital."

"Your brother?" I could barely imagine where this was leading us, having suspected his troubles to be related either to his case or to me.

"Yes indeed. I have never told you, have I, what Mycroft is?"

"I seem to recall that in the early days of our marriage, _you told me that he had some small office under the British government_."

"_I did not know you quite so well in those days. One has to be discreet when one talks of high matters of state. You are right in thinking that he is under the British government. You would also be right in a sense if you said that occasionally he is the British government."_

"You mean to say…?"

"Well, mayhap I am exaggerating. But certainly Mycroft holds a unique position. Every decision of political import is passed to him, to consider before it is conveyed to the ultimate authority. He has several important departments under him, the Secret Service and parts of the military forces."

I sat silent while trying to digest this revelation, but Holmes did not allow me an awful lot of time.

"I need not add that he enjoys the full confidence of said ultimate authority – or used to enjoy it. The royal person to whom I refer has been shaken in her belief in my brother, and, I regret to say, justifiably so. It turns out Mycroft has been conducting toxic gas tests for military purposes on his own responsibility. In order to keep it secret, he used a deserted tin mine in Devonshire as a testing ground."

"So, that is where you 'ave been these last days!" it escaped me.

"I'm afraid you are right. I did not dare to tell you – or anyone, for that matter. There would be terrible consequences if the secret were given away."

"Why are ye tellin' me now?"

"I already said I couldn't stand it any longer without confiding in anyone. I have kept the secrets of kings, but I was never personally affected by them. For God's sake!" He beat his palm with the fist. "He's my brother, after all!"

"Mr. Holmes!" I leant forward and put my hand on his briefly. "Please don't get too worked up. Ya wanted to talk to someone, an' I'm listenin'. Pray, what happened in Devonshire?"

Holmes appeared calmed within an instant, but I sensed he was imposing great discipline upon himself. Looking straight into my eyes, he explained: "There was a mistake. An accident in the mine. Everyone involved was killed, amongst others a dozen children from the neighbourhood, who had been appointed to assist because they were small enough to pass the ancient funnels."

"My!" Involuntarily, I gasped a little. "How awful!"

He lowered his eyes, uneasily tugging on his fingers. "The incident was hushed up, but somehow it leaked through to the authorities. Mycroft had not strictly speaking overstepped his boundaries in conducting this test series, but Her Royal Highness was displeased that he should have done so without consulting her first. She engaged me – me of all persons! – to have a close eye on Mycroft's affairs, on everything he does on behalf of his country. I cannot imagine why."

I smiled a wry little smile. "It is too obvious; and common knowledge probably, that your relations are rather more than a bit strained. Perhaps Her Royal Highness assumed you would not be sorry to see Mycroft being held liable for his doings."

"I wouldn't – that is right – I had long suspected his proceedings were not always quite kosher. But I have been entrusted with this enquiry a week ago, and what I have unearthed since is too serious to be considered a mere point of contention between feuding brothers."

I held my breath. "What, then?"

He shrugged his shoulders, defeated. "The gas explosion in Devonshire was no isolated case. It is unnecessary to go deep into details, but as my research has shown, brother Mycroft has enough skeletons in his closet to be expelled from state service altogether. Of course, nothing has as yet been proven against him."

"But you will prove it?"

"I will try to do so. Meanwhile, there are several obstacles, the first being that it is painful and to some extent disgraceful for me to have my own brother as an opponent. Second, there are difficulties to come by incriminating material – Mycroft always takes care to clean up the mess behind him. And third, it is highly improbably he will just sit with his hands in his lap until I have found the means to ruin him."

"What will 'e do?"

"Well, ruin me first, I should think. Denigrate me in the eyes of the august person that enlisted my services. Damage my reputation among the public."

I ejaculated a dry, short laugh of incredulity. "That's ludicrous! He knows nothing against you. You've nothing to reproach yerself with."

"No, I don't think I have – morally. Of course, there are certain liberties I took in the scope of my work, such as burgling the houses of my adversaries. But that counts as nothing in the public view, and is likely to be forgiven easily, if it should ever come out. No, I think his wisest course of action would be to try and destroy my moral side…but I won't provide him with an opportunity there. As you say, I have nothing – "again he looked at me, and swallowed hard. "Bar one single exception, I have nothing to reproach me with in my life."

We regarded each other, slightly bent forward in our seats. "You mean…us?"

He nodded very lightly, more through the motion of his eyelids than of his head. "I don't regret it", I whispered. My eyes never left his. There was a little pause, only the length of a heartbeat. Then Holmes raised his hand, slowly, gazing at me hypnotically, and touched my cheek, a cold breeze on the heated landscape of my face.

I closed my eyes, smoothing closer into the light touch, my heart racing at the intimacy of the gesture. Oh blessed, blissful moment. Ecstasy. Why could it not be like this always and forever? All too soon he withdrew his hand. I looked at him. His expression was inscrutable – he had donned his mask, and the fleeting instant of caress was over. It had been too brief – too brief!

Like a freezing man attracted by the fire, I felt drawn to his presence, his body, and slipping from my seat to the floor, I placed one hand on each of his thighs, re-establishing the contact that suddenly seemed indispensable to life.

His gaze, serious and also a little amazed, rested on my upturned face. "Shh, easy, easy. What is the matter with you, child?"

His tones, almost too deep to understand, seemed to stroke my soul as his fingers ran through my hair soothingly. I could hear the rain drum on the roof, though I could not be certain it was not my pulse. "Kiss me…one more time", I solicited him.

The hand in my hair gently slid around the back of my head. "Just one more time?"

"Please, if you will."

"And you'll be satisfied afterwards and go to sleep, meek as a lamb?"

"Yes", I replied agitatedly. God, oh God. I did not know what things were coming to. Already he inclined his head toward me, his hand drawing my face closer to his.

Our kiss was slow; it had nothing of the fierceness of our first. I took my time, afraid I would never be able to do this again, and so did he…so was he, surely…Without breaking the kiss, I slowly but steadily mounted his lap, until I straddled him. He let me prevail only so far, and then turned his face from me.

"Enough. That is enough."

Oh, the liar! As I took his head into my hands and turned it back to face me, I could see clearly how matters stood with him. Was it possible that such hunger should lurk in human eyes? For he eyed me like the buzzard his prey. Every moment he might swoop down to take possession of me once more.

But no, no. For that, he was too much master of himself. His strictness rung true when he requested that I should desist. He almost persuaded me but not quite…my determination to stick to my promise waned.

"_Please_, Mr. Holmes!" I moaned breathily, wrapping my arms around his neck. We kissed again, intoxicated by the nearness of each other. His hands moved around my waist stealthily, and were rejoined at the small of my back.

"Caution, Kitty", he muttered under his breath, withdrawing from my lips, "I am only a man, when all is said and done."

I did not obey and continued to caress him dedicatedly, my fingers digging into his loose, soft hair. Everything in him captivated me, I loved his ragged breath, his face striving for composure, his hands almost involuntarily sliding back to my waist.

"That must suffice for you." He would have sounded too troubled to conceal his arousal from me, even if I had not long perceived it. "Get off my lap, Kitty...please!"

"No –I - ouch – I can't - I …"

I could not stop now. He was not in his rights to ask that of me, when his hands were everywhere…everywhere. They left no room for thought, or reason. If he wanted it to stop, he would have to stop it himself, but he did not seem willing to do that, neither. Clearly he had never learned to take himself back, or had lost the ability, and was now paying the price.

With a frustrated groan, he let his head drop against the backrest.

"Girl…girl…get off, I implore you. Get off, I say!" He gritted his teeth, trying halfheartedly to shove me from his lap. There was sweat gleaming on his forehead. I kissed along the hard line of his jaw in rapture.

He resisted. He struggled. I would not relent. Too great was the appeal of his obscurely gleaming eyes, his ugly, sensual mouth. I started to undo the uppermost buttons on his shirt.

"No", he panted, "no."

It was to no avail though, his resistance was growing shallow, and he did not even try to hinder me when I swiftly undid the buttons of my own blouse. Despite the fact that my mind was beclouded by the keenness of my appetite, part of me was still aware of my disfigurement, and afraid of his scrutiny. I had not forgotten his horror-stricken eyes when months ago, I had given Violet Merville a glimpse what Baron Gruner was capable of.

But there was no need for concern. Grave though his expression was, it contained no trace of consternation or revulsion. Cautiously removing the fabric, he bent his head and softly touched the hideously marred flesh with his lips. I seized his hands and guided them beneath my clothes, where they roamed my body incessantly. I sighed, relishing the exquisite pain my burned skin gave me under even the most considerate caress.

With great caution, his hands were finally withdrawn; his arms put around my form. Holmes embosomed me and rose from the settee. With my legs wound around his hip, he slowly and almost staidly carried me to his bedroom.

My blouse dropped from my shoulders on the threshold, followed by his waistcoat shortly afterwards. The light in the chamber was growing brighter and the drumming sound on the roof had ceased by the time the door fell into its lock with a gentle thud. But neither Mr. Holmes nor I did really observe or deduce from the fact.

**My god! Holmes was giving me a hard time. It was a **_**bit**_** of work to get Kitty back in his bed, lol!**

**I still wonder how he will handle the new situation. I'm figuring all the time. Will he be happy, annoyed, mad, resigned, disappointed/disillusioned, indifferent or just plain sad about it? We'll see (soon as I have come to a conclusion). So long then!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	58. Chapter 58

Chapter fifty-eight: The morning after

5th September 1887

"_I am not like the Gods! Feel it I must/_

_I'm like the worm that burrows through the dust." Goethe's Faust_

When I woke up on the preceding day, the world to me seemed upside down. First of it was broad daylight. That was not supposed to be so. Of late I had risen early when it was still dawnish, and in blusterous weather too. But the morning that hailed me from the window was bright and exceedingly promising.

The window. It was not my window, to be sure. Nor was the bed in which I lay my bed. It was not my room at all! With the full force of suddenness, recollection came over me, and I turned around jumpily to look for the man who was _not_ sleeping beside me. Oh, bother! He had gone off again.

Having almost sat up in the bed, I relapsed onto the pillows. Notwithstanding a sense of perfect physical wellbeing, my feelings were mixed and muddled. The trouble was that I could not for the life of me assess what might be going on inside my man, now that his hunger had been assuaged and reason had had a chance to regain predominance. Probably he was unsure of that himself and had left to reconsider his thoughts and sentiments.

Oh, he would not make his threat true and send me away from him, would he? I anxiously twisted the corner of the disarranged bed sheet. I would trust him to do that if it concerned only me, he never much cared about my feelings, though I had to own he had, what with his love-inebriated frenzy, treated me with remarkable kindness last night.

But what about him? Would he voluntarily dispense with what we had shared, what we could share again? Would he deprive himself of that? I could hardly imagine it. And yet…Could I ever be sure about him?

No. The only thing I could be certain about was me, and it had pleased me greatly to please him, to do just what he wanted me to do. Already I yearned for him to take me into his arms again…I had only got so far in my ruminations when I was alerted by a not-too-soft tread of feet in the neighbouring room. So he was there, after all!

Hastily getting on my feet, I slipped on the purple dressing gown, which on Holmes' tall figure merely reached the knees, but on my more moderate length touched the floor at its seam. Wading through our clothes that pooled on the rug, I approached the door hesitantly, already smelling what probably was his first cigarette of the day.

I was not deceived. He was in my view as soon as I had opened the door, smoking by the open window. Mellow sunlight and a light breeze were pouring into the room. Holmes was incompletely dressed, he wore the grey dressing gown over his night things, but obviously had taken a bath, or more concretely speaking his skin had a slight rosy glow as though he had virtually _scrubbed_ it. Timidly I lingered in the doorframe, not sure whether he had noticed my appearance, but I was soon given certainty as to that point.

"You need not stand there for the rest of the day, you know", he observed levelly and without turning around.

I gave his indifferent back a shy smile. "Good morning."

There was no reply, and my heart sank. Mustering a last little amount of courage, I crossed the room, stepped up behind him and reached out for his arm.

"Don't!" A sharp and determined hiss was his sole reaction and I cowered instantly.

"So you _are_ angry with me. I though as much." A further instant of waiting brought no fresh reaction. I hung my head. "Mr. Holmes, would it make a difference, would it make any difference at all if I told you how I am really, really – "

"Kitty!" he exclaimed violently, spinning around and glaring. "Could we just _not _discuss it? Please?"

I frowned, half displeased, half scared. "What do you mean to do instead? You can't jus' ignore what happened. I – I care about you, Sherlock!"

"But I don't care about you! And evidently, your care is not worth much when I consider how it made you coax me into this despicable, revolting…thing!"

"Well, you didn't seem to find it so very revolting las' night!" I bit back, tears pricking in my eyes. "I jus' wish you'd stop behaving like a nine-year-old!"

"Oh I do, don't I?"

"Yes! And stop pretending you don't care about me, for I know that you do! I…could tell by the way you looked at me last night…"

"You flatter yourself!" he sneered coldly. "It was a caprice of the flesh – nothing more. My body responded to yours, as it is only natural with your constant teasing and wriggling and twirling your hair. But _I _was ever despondent. It was just my body that was weak enough to give in to your cajoling. No blame for the occurrence can be attached to me."

I was weeping by now. His words were too abusive. "I hate you!"

"Do you, now? Not five minutes ago you declared to care about me, now you say you hate me. I expect you to tell me, come another five minutes; that you dote on me."

"But I _do_ dote on you!" I ejaculated tearfully.

"I have no more time to waste over these incoherent ravings!" he bellowed, suddenly losing his temper. "By Jove, you must be the worst thing that happened to me in my life! You've cost me my dignity, self-respect, best friend and probably my good name! What will come next? Let me tell you one thing, if one of us really had a reason to hate the other, it would be undoubtedly me!"

"You can't talk to me like that!" I cried out. "You've chosen me – made love to me – you've fathered my child! I refuse to believe it was all a big coincidence – that it was all for nothing!"

He stepped very close, locking eyes with me, and said with just enough volume to be heard: "Get out of my sight!"

I could not help myself. I backed off. I shrank. But the last word had certainly not been said in this affair.

oooOOOooo

After having taken my post-coital bath hastily, I left and arrived at school with about forty minutes delay. Mary was supervising the girls when I reached the classroom.

"Quiet, children! Just proceed with your predicament until Mrs. Holmes has taken off her coat. I shall return to my own class now. See you all in the afternoon!" She excited the room, and whispered in passing: "Where the deuce have you been?"

I shrugged my shoulders, signifying I would explain later, and turned at the girls who were already playing on Mary's absence for various fooleries and pranks.

"Resume yer seats! There is no reason for this commotion. Jus' go on doin' what Mrs. Watson told ya to do!"

"But why're ya so late, missus? Mrs. Watson'd give me a foine treatment if I was so late!"

"None of your business, Gemma!" I blustered. "There, I suspect you're all slack o' work. How are ya lookin', anyways? Do up yer barnet! An' next lesson, I expect ever'one of you to wear yer stockings, we're not in the tropics."

"But ma'am! I don't 'ave any!" one of the younger girls objected apprehensively.

"Well then, start ter knit some!"

oooOOOooo

The rays of the sun were still warm and pleasant when I rambled out of the building and down the street to _Buszard's_. Mary was already waiting for me.

"Care to explain yourself?" she snapped when I had hardly sat down. "I had to look after two classes simultaneously, yours and mine! And I don't know about you, but one is quite enough for me. Pancakes and orange tea!" she told the waitress in much the same belligerent tone, which upset the good woman quite a bit.

I waited for her to stroll off, and cautiously cleared my voice. "I am awfully sorry, Mary dear. Its jus' that I…I o'erslept…"

Not a lie, after all. It was not the best of excuses, and Mary not in the sweetest of moods, but after having got some food into herself, she was a little becalmed. "Well, well, it could happen to anyone. Please just see that it doesn't happen again."

We drifted into a chat about our scholastic concerns, and how Mary's music students were progressing, and how Sadie and Gemma had repeatedly tried to stab each other with their knitting needles, when Mary's brow clouded again. She let me finish a lengthy anecdote, peering at me closely, and after I had more or less ended asked in what was a very brusque and businesslike tone:

"Kitty – are you having an affair?"

I stopped dead in the middle of a gestural demonstration of the row between the girls and gazed at her foolishly. She twitched her eyebrows with impatience. "You can tell me, you know. One doesn't have to be a detective to come to that conclusion, for when I see the love bite beneath your right ear and remember your flustered arrival in the morning, I can put two and two together just as well."

I had started a little at her words, and almost leaped towards the stained mirror next to the wardrobe. She was right. There was a violet bruise on my neck, faint but perceivable.

"Oh dear…" I tried to cover it up as good as possible, but it was just above my collar and I needed my hair for the other side of the neck. "I must apologize Mary…it is not a suitable sight for young girls, though I dare say they didn't notice. I just…did not look properly at my reflection in the glass when I got ready for the day."

"I dare say you didn't." I sank back on my chair, and Mary, grave but sympathetic, patted my back. "There there…these things do happen…"

"No!" Annoyed, I shook my head. "You get it all wrong. It's not what you think."

"What, then?" her eyes widened. "My God, you didn't get into a fight, did you?"

Somehow the most plausible alternative did not occur to her mind. "You _are _having an affair. It doesn't look like a bruise; it is definitely a love bite. Who is it, Kitty?"

I cast down my eyes. This was too grotesque. "Now listen, I am a married woman, and honestly I can see no reason why I should submit to your interrogation. If you think I could do such a thing, and not be caught by my husband…"

"He?" With wider eyes still, she pressed her hands to her mouth.

"Well, what's so extraordinary about that?" I asked fractiously. "He is my husband, after all."

"But I don't understand!" she exclaimed. "I mean…you told me he did not regard these things as enjoyable, and here you are with a baby on the way, and yet – "

"I know", I said hurriedly. "That changed. He changed. His behaviour; everything. I believe he loves me, Mary. Indeed he must, even if he does not know it yet."

Somehow my friend had grown very pale during my address. Just when I was about to add some reasons for my assumption, she seized my hand and pressed it. "Kitty dear – you are under some horrible delusion. You know I'd encourage everything that could possibly do you any good, but I should hate you to experience disappointment. You should not – you must not become obsessed with the idea that Mr. Holmes cares for you to any degree exceeding the most superficial affection. We know he is not made out to be a lover, and I think his conduct toward you has shown time and time again – "

"He loved me last night, just as much as I loved him", I returned fiercely. "We were happy then."

Mary, however, looked less and less happy as she was sitting next to me. "That is the crest of naivete, Kitty. I think we both know that men, in certain situations, tend to – "

"You told me he loved me!" I groused accusingly. "You said so when I came to you after our holiday. Or was that just to comfort me?"

"No – no, I believed it to be so, at the time. Nevertheless – "

"Mary", I said as shortly as possible, "I think that if you 'ave something to tell me, you had better tell me now and be done with it."

Her face fell, a little. "John would not want me to do this", she muttered nervously, "no, despite everything, he will be dreadfully angry with me. But I cannot stand by and see a friend be used by a man who has no respect for her very life."

I could make nothing of her words, but there was no need for me to dig deeper, she was speaking voluntarily now. "Kitty, you do remember that day – that day when the Ripper abducted you?"

What a harebrained question. "Do you think I could ever forget?" With a shudder, I recalled the endless hours in the obscure basement room, alone with the misogynist brute. Mary continued without looking at me.

"As you know, the man wrote a letter to Mr. Holmes, to the effect that if he'd come unarmed, you should go free."

"So?" I asked curtly, not liking the sound of it all.

"Well, when he heard about it, John immediately went to see Holmes and council with him. And can you conjecture how Holmes welcomed him?"

"How?"

"I think he used the words: I have no mind to go", Mary said, still not looking at me, but talking herself warm. "That's what he said. He didn't intend to come to your rescue if there was any chance that he might come to harm himself. Not even you could call that love."

I was peeved by her self-important twaddle. "I can't know what possessed him, and neither can you. Fact remains; he came to risk his life for mine."

"He came", she corrected me pensively, "to save you from the Ripper."

"So what?" I was getting seriously angry. "Pray where is the significant difference?"

"Kitty", Mary said sadly, finally looking me in the eyes, "Do you at all remember what we told you, the day afterwards?"

I stared at her, failing to understand, not wanting to understand. Every fiber of my being resisted against it.

"I'm sorry, dear." She sounded genuinely grieved. "But he did that all for the baby; and for the baby alone."

oooOOOooo

It could not be. No, no. For a moment or so I had been taken in, but it was impossible. I just know when a man is seriously attached to me. A woman always knows. And Mr. Holmes had had no reason to try and deceive me. The feeling he had shown me the night before had been true, though he could not admit it either to himself or to me. What Mary had told me might well be correct, but in a sense it was not _true_.

A whole month had passed since our narrow escape from the cellar, and so much had happened in between. Was it not possible that Holmes had started to appreciate me more _after_ he had waged his life for my safety? The knowledge that I would give him a child might also have played an important role. Yes, it was very possible. More than that: It was probable, and to this conviction I would adhere.

**Ha! Kitty is very resolved to be blind to all that points the other way. But perhaps she is justified in trusting to her instinct in this matter?**

**Currently, I'm awfully glad to have this story as a distraction. Where I live, in the Upper Rhine Valley, the clouds have been drooping deep for weeks and keep me from really enjoying the summer. I should be doubly glad to hear from you!**

**Love, gloomy mrs.F **


	59. Chapter 59

Chapter fifty-nine: Raw meat, naked flesh

5th September 1887

"_Blood is quite a peculiar juice." Goethe's Faust_

The rest of the day was spent in an effort to drown my chagrin in vermouth at the _Cock&Horse_. Ernie and Porkey, having been informed about the situation with only some slight modification of fact, had joined me out of sympathy.

"Ain't he just a nasty basterd?" Ernie said repeatedly, trying to be helpful, when after ten I started only to look into my glass with dull eyes. "Oughtn't you throw 'im over?"

"Yeah I ought, but there's the chile to consider", I grumbled ungraciously. "Besides, we're married, remember."

"Right…" the landlord scratched his head ruefully, recalling his own precarious state of marriage. "It wouldn't be proper then."

"No, it wouldn't." I emptied the glass in one draught and banged it on the counter.

"Oh cheer up girl", Porkey exclaimed. "Forget about Holmes fer a minute. Ye're goin' ter turn twenty-six next week, an' Ernie here an' I have been thinkin' our 'eads off what to give ya."

I waved him away. "Hardly an occasion for celebration, my getting' older, so don't trouble yerselves."

"But we must give you something!" Ernie chimed in, "imagine yer old man forgets about it, what a sad day that would be!"

"Yes", I returned grimly, "I can imagine that very well."

oooOOOooo

Porkey saw me home, for it would have been wholly irresponsible to let me out into the street in my present condition, and Ernie was dreadfully busy of a sudden over the two and a half people still in his pub. Thus I was escorted to my door, where I fussed with my keys incompetently.

"C'mon, let me. I guess I'll have ter help ya up the apples, before you have an accident or get into deeper trouble still wiv yer man."

"Oh, he!" I sniggered. "Prob'ly long in bed, the office bore!"

"Well, all the better. Gimmer yer arm!" Porkey assisted me in crossing the hall, which to me seemed simply ridiculous until I stumbled over my own foot. I was laughing out loud ever before we reached the stairs. Everything seemed so funny, suddenly.

Just when we started to climb it I realized Porkey was none too sober, either. He swayed, and grabbed the bannister with one hand, my arm with the other. Stifled giggling. "Go on Kit, maike an effort! Ya don't want ter sleep on the apples, do ye?"

There, that was too much. I tripped, and, giggling helplessly, pulled Porkey with me, who snorted like a horse that's being tickled.

"Now, le's get up…" he gave a good example and held out his hand to me so as to pull me up. But I just could not move.

Suddenly, there was slight on the upper landing. It was Holmes. He was wearing a dark suit with an emerald necktie, and appeared so correct from head to toe as if he had just stepped out of the magazine of a gentlemen's outfitter. In mild shock, I blinked against the light to read his expression, which, however, had turned to stone. Next to me, the gay snorting died down.

Holmes did not speak to me. Holmes didn't say a word. He just looked down on me with a long gaze that contained so much contempt that my heart bled. No crinkling of the nose, not even a quirked brow. Mute and bare of expression, he disappeared through the door to his room, leaving us out in the staircase.

oooOOOooo

6th September 1887

The next morning was better only insofar as it was the week-end. I rose with an infernal headache, having tried for the quarter of an hour to fix a point on the opposite wall with my eyes slipping away each time, and stuck my entire swollen head into the washing bowl. Afterwards I felt a little improved. Rubbing down my hair and getting ready for the day wearily, I found I had better avoid my husband's critical gaze for the time being, and seek out an understanding soul instead.

oooOOOooo

"Another cappuccino?"

"No, thanks Lorenzo. I'm beginning to feel myself again."

We were sitting in the _Café Greco_, and nibbling on Italian almond cookies, I leafed through the exhibition catalogue of the Lewis collection. "You ain't included in here!"

"I am, actually, but only as a name. The picture being incomplete, I couldn't provide them with a copy yet."

"Oh Lorenzo! When's the whole thing gonna start?"

"Little more than a week from now."

"An' will ya maike it till then?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I may, or may not cara. It depends also on you – _un poco_."

"Oh, if that is the problem! Anytime. How many sittings yet, whatcha think?"

"Um, if we work some hours at a stretch, one sitting ought to suffice in bringing the thing to a conclusion, I think. I'd just like to go into the subtleties a little more."

I grasped his hand with agitation. "Let's get it finished this week, shall we?"

He looked at me with smiling eyes. "Why, you're very eager to be displayed in public, aren't you?"

"And I will be! Grant me this one….as a birthday wish. I shan't want anything else!"

"Oh, if you ask me like this!" His smile had reached the corners of his mouth. It was very pretty, very tender. "Let's make it Monday, then. That is, if you have nothing better to do?"

"'course not! Won't it be grand?" Enthusiastically, I picked up the catalogue again. "You amongst pictures by Pissaro, Liebermann, Sisley…"

"Right. All those chaps with what I don't have – a name", Lorenzo sighed gloomily.

"You will, too!" I got up, ruffled his hair and reached for my bag. "If you make an effort and' pursue yer career."

"You're leaving already?"

"Yeah, needs must. Can' starve my husband, can I? An' it ain't funny, he's not bound to eat a thing if I don't remind him. See ya baked, Lorenzo!"

His expression had become somewhat sinister. "Good bye Kitty."

oooOOOooo

On my way home, I stopped to buy potatoes and some beef steaks, recalling how Holmes had militated against vegetarian diet the other day. Of course there was no great point in trying to curry favour with him; he would be cross with me either way.

But it turned out I was wrong. Holmes did not mention the previous evening with one single word, much less any other part of the previous day. He was downright taciturn, but suffered my company as he amused himself by solving the _Time_'s chess puzzle before dinner. Since he dispensed with the aid of a real chessboard, the whole process was a little obscure to me, but nonetheless I commented on it in a fashion so inept that it raised a tug at his mouth.

"I say, Kitty. Your passion for being useful does you _much_ honour, but in the case of chess puzzles, this assiduousness may be just a tad _de trop_. Must I remind you what your strong suits are?"

"No, Mr. Holmes", I replied humbly, thinking of the kitchen downstairs where my potato pie was baking. I let some time pass, finishing the row of my knit work. "Have you heard from yer brother?" I enquired finally, and as casually as possible.

His head jerked up, but he reigned himself in quickly. "Pardon? Oh – yes, indeed. We had a short interview today. Short, but conclusive", he added with a somber air.

"Did 'e come here, then?"

"Mycroft? Heavens, no. He never leaves the rails he runs on. No, no, _I_ was summoned to the Diogenes…a little like the mortal who is invited to enter Olympus, don't you think? Anyhow, I could have saved myself the trouble. All he said had passed my mind beforehand."

"Well, is that good or bad?"

"It is _boring_", Holmes replied with a gesture meant to express carelessness. Taking up his newspaper again, he asked: "So what about you? What have you been up to today?"

"Oh, I was having a coffee with a friend. Mr. Burini", I replied cautiously.

"Hm – mmmmm…." Holmes made pensively.

Nothing more was said until I got up to look after my pie; and due to inadvertency let Jack whizz into the room. Holmes was up in arms within an instant.

"Oh, for God's sake! That ginger devil. Kitty, how often have I actually told you to keep him out?" Roughly seizing him by the nape, he lifted the cat up and tossed him out onto the landing.

"Not so grossly!" I squeaked anxiously.

"If you had only half as much concern for my wellbeing, you'd give the little monster into a sanctuary", he sniffed, offended. "Really I couldn't imagine a better place to keep such a rascal in."

I glowered at him, wedging through the small opening he had left between door and frame. "That is _your _view."

oooOOOooo

Angrily I stomped downstairs to have a look at our dinner. What was the man's problem? He seemed to object to everything that was a part of me, everything I had or did. I did not like everything about him either, but I did not demonstrate it in so insultingly frank a manner!

The pie was alright. The steaks were medium, but in my experience that is to the taste of most men. Thus I gathered our things on the dinner tray and carried everything upstairs, past the ostracized Ginger jack, who looked after me wistfully.

oooOOOooo

"Dinner's ready", I said loudly and for the second time after I had laid out the table, but Holmes had still not emerged from the combat of his black and white figurines. I was quite certain he had heard me very well the first time, but out of stubbornness or incivility refused to be interrupted. It was not to be borne!

Without hesitation, I marched over to him and snatched the paper out of his hands. "Excuse me! I don't think I have given myself all the trouble for naught, have I?"

He was so surprised that he finally deigned to move over from the sofa to the dinner table.

"There. That wasn't too hard, was it? Having just a little regard fer other people, yeah, even fer me, is not beneath you. It's not as though I didn't cherish standin' in the kitchen fer hours on end, but then…I say, have ya swallowed yer tongue? You can eat safely you know, I didn't put any toxins in. Not today. Eh! What's the matter wiv you?"

For he was sitting bolt upright, looking down on his plate with a quaint face, a bit as though I had served him a dead rat. His fingers firmly closed around his knife and fork. _He's just trying to make himself obnoxious!_ I thought, raising my glass to my mouth, but stopping dead when suddenly he made a pitiable sound, somewhere between a start and a choke. Was he sick? His skin was deadly pale, and his mouth trembled with averseness as he stared down at the medium steak, lovingly prepared by me.

"Mr. Holmes…"

He suddenly looked up into my eyes, but the sense of averseness did not vanish. No, he was not sick. He was blatantly disgusted. Displaying a final air, he stood and with a clatter banged his cutlery on the plate before he rushed out of the room. Open mouthed, I looked after him, appalled by such effrontery.

_In the small hours of the previous day….._

Sherlock Holmes was sleeping. He was having a dream he had not had since the days of his childhood, but still it seemed vaguely familiar. In his dream, he entered a strange, windowless room with brilliantly white floor, walls and ceiling. It seemed to him very cold, so he wandered about until he found a table and a plate on it with a slice of meat. Being very hungry, he sat down and ate. There wasn't any cutlery, so he was eating with his fingers.

After having eaten about half the slice, he realized he had been mistaken. There was neither a table nor a plate, only the meat in his fingers. Slightly shivering, he contracted his shoulders and noticed the reason for the coldness: He hadn't any clothes on. His eyes trailed down his arm, the skin of which was growing goose bumps, and discovered that the meat he was eating was raw; and next thing there was a terrible, metallic taste of blood diffusing in his mouth….

With a start, he woke up. The first thing to occur to him was that he was really wearing no clothes, before to his horror he saw the motionless young woman next to him, naked just like he, but with rich red hair flowing over her shoulders, a beautiful beast slaughtered for his consumption. But her flesh was appallingly burnt – eaten up – _raw_, it glowed red and angry against the white bed cloth, somehow making her seem more naked than she really was.

And then, there was the smear of blood across her thigh – BLOOD! Blood of which the smell filled his nostrils, blood that had stained him, too…!

**Ok, it is **_**that **_**time again. I want to send Sherlock off to the psychotherapist. Seeing as that is impossible, I'll do my best to act through Kitty, so that her beloved may become something akin to normal, finally…**


	60. Chapter 60

Chapter sixty: Of human bondage

8th September 1887

"_Sweet agony of love, possess this heart of mine/ Thou who on dews of hope dost feed and yet dost pine." Goethe's Faust_

"It is actually quite good, ya knows?" I remarked, bent low over Lorenzo's shoulder. But he slowly shook his head.

"I could not honestly say I like every bit of it. I am not satisfied, if you see what I mean." He sighed deeply, and ran over the canvas for the hundredth time.

"Well, one mustn't aim too 'igh. No work o' art could ever be perfect, Lorenzo."

"You don't understand." He put down his brush, almost angry. "If I am to show this picture to the world, I want it to be as I imagined it, not a second rate copy of my vision. I want it to resemble…no, to be worthy of you…."

His words took me a little off guard. I flinched from his direct gaze. "I'm convinced it is – and you may be more than satisfied wiv the technique."

"Nonetheless…" There it was again, the warm and tender expression in his eyes. "It may need another polish. Would it be feasible for you to return in the course of the week, and commit a final sitting to the finish?"

I had to hurry and look elsewhere. The kindness and all-embracing acceptance were almost too much for me. "Don't you think this picture had enough final polishes, Lorenzo?"

I knew I had but to look back to read the answer. But I did not, and only heard Lorenzo say: "It'd be a great favour, Kitty."

Slowly, with my eyes fixed on the canvas all the time, I nodded. "Shall we say tomorrow?"

"If it suits you." How polite he sounded! How amiable! I was used no longer to such friendliness.

Taking much care not to slip and look straight into his face, I held out my hand to take my leave. But how shocking to perceive that instead of shaking it, he raised it to his lips; he studded it with a kiss!

This had never happened before. In deep amazement, I glanced at him, but he only laughed, and so did I, a little embarrassed. The spell was broken.

"Until tomorrow then. The first moment I can make it", I promised, before slipping on my overcoat and leaving his ramshackle suite.

oooOOOooo

I was walking through Hyde Park on my way home. Families no longer camped by the border of the Serpentine as they had done in early summer, but the weather was mild and sunny. It seemed autumn wished to make amends for the rainy six weeks that lay behind us. There were even some late flowers sprouting on an unmown strip.

I picked a red, lucent poppy, but was quite irrationally disappointed when in my hands, the thin petals crumbled. Who had told me once that flowers were better left in their spot? I could not remember now, but it was certainly true. Casting away the withered blossom, which was trampled into the mud by the horses of two overtaking riders, I proceeded on my way across the park.

oooOOOooo

At home, I devoted my time to the due jobs in the house, but I did not dream of preparing dinner. Pray where was the point in that if the man meant to consume it just clanked down his cutlery and walked away without explanation? For up to now, he had given none. I was accustomed to silence and to blithe disregarding of what had happened whenever some awkwardness had occurred, but this time I could not even divine _what_ the awkwardness might have been.

It had been just the purest incivility on his part, and I would suffer no repetition thereof. Thus resolved, I took the drawer with the silver out of the credenza and sat down at the kitchen table to polish it.

I had not proceeded far when loud calling in the hall heralded the advent of my husband. Not replying though he called my name, I let him search every storey of the house before it occurred to him to look in the kitchen.

"Here you are. Have you no ears to hear? I wanted to talk to you!" he complained, considerably annoyed. Shrugging my shoulders, I stooped lower over my work, treating the knives and spoons rather more thoroughly than necessary. "I see. You've determined to have no curiosity", he mocked me acidly. "Forgive me then for interrupting your most complex and engaging task. I shan't trouble you again."

This was rather a little too much. It was not for him to be offended, after all the liberties he had allowed himself during the past few days. Raising my head but continuing with my work, I observed coldly: "Mr. Holmes, if you have come to apologize fer yesterday, you could jus' say so. For honestly I don't intend to trade another word wiv you until you have explained yer less than ceremonious exit."

"Don't you?" he flouted. "Well, I dare say that…."He interrupted himself, looking at me closely.

"What?" I snapped, when his eyes lingered on my person so inexplicably. "What is the matter?"

"Kitty", he drawled, and it sounded really frightening. "You're wearing your blouse inside out."

Mechanically, I glanced at my wrist. True. The ivory Lockram blouse showed a fine dark seam around the collar. It would have caught nobody's attention but his. "What's that supposed ter mean?"

"You were _not_ wearing your blouse inside out when you left in the morning. Where have you been, Kitty?"

I laughed curtly. "That's absurd! We didn't e'en meet in the morning."

He eyed me narrowly. "Since you're not the most observant of people, I can well believe you did not see me. Suffice it for you, however, that I saw you before your departure, and in an impeccable state of dress. I'm asking you for the last time: _Where_ have you been?"

His direct questioning outraged me. I had done nothing wrong! "Well, I been to my mate's if you must know."

"Oh you have, haven't you? And inasmuch as which was this cozy visit an occasion to emerge from with your clothes inverted, if I may ask?"

He was leaning on the table, scowling at me. My hands trembled with anger, but I forced myself to carry on with the polishing of the silver. "For one wiv yer great perspicuity, it is probably quite obvious my visit could only have been to Lorenzo", I returned snippily. Silence. Then –

"What?" he roared; caught me by the wrist and jerked me up on my feet. It was raining silver knives and spoons everywhere in the kitchen. "Say that again!"

"Ow – ow – let me go, fer God's sake!" I mewled, squirming out of his grasp and rubbing ma wrist. "Ye're hurting!"

"So that is all you have to say? You admit it? You have been fooling me with this – this – "

"You must be outta yer senses! I went to be painted, o' course. It was _you_ who gave me the permission!"

"Gibberish!" he huffed. "I did nothing of the sort. Do you mean to say that all the times you went there; it was to take off your things in front of this brazen dago?"

I gritted my teeth. "I thought you liked Lorenzo."

"So I did!" he spat angrily, "_Before_ he started to make eyes at my wife!"

"Mr. Holmes!" I tried to turn in. "You're wholly mistaken…."

"Do not be so blind!" he snarled. His eyes glittered spitefully. "A woman should be the first to notice, shouldn't she?"

"No! No, I assure you – "

"There'll be an end to it!" Holmes shouted cholerically. He was beside himself with fury. "What do you take me for, eh? If you think I'd stand by and watch this – this _filou_ wreak havoc with my marriage, you have mistaken your man!"

"Your _marriage_!" I jeered. "And what is there to it, pray? Domestic slavery, and connubial diversion when you happen to feel like it…"

His face writhed. "How dare you speak to me like this!"

"How dare I? How dare I?" I stepped closer, my teeth still gritted, fists clenched. "How dare you treat me like dirt, sir? You are no better than me in so many respects, and yet you presume to act as my superior! 'ow is it, for one, that you spurned my dedication to you, and are now burning wiv jealousy, a sentiment I deem the pettiest and least attractive of all?"

"Jealous? I? You command a very sound self-confidence, it would seem. You may be confusing jealousy with a very comprehensible aversion to being ridiculed by an immature woman that doesn't know her limits, and a happy-go-lucky gigolo!"

"An' for another", I seethed, "how is it that you always try to appear open-minded, and cosmopolitan, and yet are the worst of xenophobes? Yes, so long as Lorenzo is there, you're all like quattrocento, Bella Italia and canzoniere, but as soon as he's turned his back…!"

"I perceive you are steadfast in your defense of him." He had calmed down a little, but had also grown many degrees colder. "It seems he has gained a great influence over you with his charming ways…."

I frankly looked into his face. "I will not deny 'e does have charming ways. Especially in comparison t'you, whose only claim to my affection would be your blasted money."

The atmosphere in the kitchen seemed to freeze. Sherlock Holmes took a step backwards. "Very well. You asked for it. I wouldn't have done this down to a whim of my own, but you asked for it."

Breathlessly, I watched him straighten himself and fold one arm across his back as he passed through the room. _There! He's going to kick me out!_

Speaking to the kitchen ceiling rather than to me, my husband declared: "I hereby deprive you of the privilege of moving freely about town, and also of receiving visitors, for an indefinite length of time. You shall remain here in the house, where I can satisfy myself as to the properness with which you exact your duties as a wife. Any infringement of this decree…."

"You're crazy! By what mean do you intend to keep me? D'ye mean to lock me up in my room, or won't you bother an' taike out yer revolver at once?" I gibed. "Besides which, even if I wanted to humour yer strange quirks, it'd be impossible. Lorenzo needs me ter complete the picture, an' the exhibition's going to be next week."

"Exhibition? Are you telling me this filthy rag is meant for public display?"

"It's not filthy; it's a very good painting!" I retorted obstinately. "You hain't even seen it!"

"Nobody will see it! This is intolerable. Do I strike you as a man who lets the mass gaze at his wife in a state of deshabille? You shall never have my assent for this. Do you hear me? Never!"

"Nobody asked fer your assent!" I vociferated. "It has nothing to do wiv you! The event will take place _with_ the picture, whether you approve of it or not, an' it'll make Lorenzo a wealthy an' celebrated artist…"

"…and they lived happily ever after!" Holmes scoffed. "Not so, dear Kitty. That option is out. Though it is a shame. Don't you think so?" With an unmoved expression, he peered down at me. "Don't you think it is a pity he wasn't a wealthy and celebrated artist some five months ago?"

I returned his gaze and for the first time really, I understood the comparison with an inexorable sleuth dog people had chanced to make. There was a hardness in Holmes' eyes that differed strongly from the man with the agreeable manners and flowery language. Suddenly, it appeared to me I did not know him, had never known him the tiniest bit.

Though frightened, I did not wince, he had questioned my character too much, my virtue, maturity and devotion, but most of all my courage. "I'll go where it pleases me, and do whatever I mean to do."

"I should think no, indeed."

"You cannot keep me from seeing my friends! I'm not yer captive! And if it pleases me to see Lorenzo, I shall see him!"

"You certainly won't."

I collected all my pluck and snorted derisively. "How do you mean to prevent it? Do you plan to be around all day to observe me?"

"Don't concern yourself with that. I shall know if you have disobeyed me, make no mistake. And if I find that you have been with this man again…"

"Yeah?" I returned, trying to sound careless. "Then what?"

He turned on me a most stolid and self-possessed face. "Then I shall make sure you regret it."

**Hum….that was explicit! But knowing Kitty, I strongly doubt she'll submit to the curfew imposed on her! And "then what" indeed!**

**Love, mrs.f**


	61. Chapter 61

Chapter sixty-one: Only Friends

9th September 1887

"_What never happens makes you quail/ and what you never lose, always you must bewail." Goethe's Faust_

Nothing more was said on the topic this evening. I went to bed, furious. The liar! The hypocrite! The domestic tyrant!

The presumption of his order was monstrous to me. He could not make me stay at home by force! We were past those ages. Of course I would not hesitate to go and keep my appointment, come what might. This resolution gave me a little satisfaction, but yet sleep would not come easily.

Holmes had spoken with such determination! I could not for the life of me imagine what measures he would take to tie me to the house, but I knew he had not spoken idly, and I knew he was subtle and resourceful.

Naturally there was still some hope he would come to his senses and change his mind as soon as he had calmed down, but I hardly dared to rely on it. Somehow my opposition had challenged his pride, and he would not rest until he had revenged himself in some way or other.

I glided into an uneasy slumber, from which I woke only one hour from noon on the next day, when the sun was so high that its rays were dipping trough the dormer window. They tickled my face, made the little dust grains in the air dance and glitter. It was a gorgeous day.

The sky was clear and unclouded, and the air was soft and tingly like champagne. I put on my wine red plush and ostrich hat, and went down the stairs. I went slowly; and noisily on purpose, but there was action on the part of Holmes, not the least notion to be perceived in his rooms. Perhaps he had really appreciated how unworthy of him his behaviour had been? Perhaps he divined how hateful the notion of cowardice was to me, and that he had provoked my departure rather than prevented it?

I could not tell, but was on the alert until I had reached the base of the stairs. How strange. If he had tried no intervention up to now, was it not vastly unlikely that he would do so at all? Maybe he was not even at home. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of his door, but as I walked on stumbled over a large, cumbrous portmanteau deposited in the middle of the hall and almost fell.

Issuing a curse, I regained my balance. "Hm-Hm", a refined female voice said, and I spun round to see Mrs. Hudson stand in the doorway to her own flat, save and sound and apparently in excellent health.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, madam. I'm afraid my luggage was placed quite inconveniently by the cabman. You're not hurt, are you?"

"Mrs. Hudson! How – when – I didn't know you were coming?"

"But hasn't Mr. Holmes told you? The bad weather has wandered down south, and since I was feeling my old self again, I decided to return home. I _did_ send a telegram. Surely Mr. Holmes must have forgotten to let you know?"

Her large, mild eyes seemed a little sad at the idea that her arrival should be a matter of so little consequence to us. Hastily I shook my head. "By no means! I was jus' confused fer a moment, I – I o'erslept…"

The expression of her eyes changed from sad to reproachful, alienated by the thought that someone should rise so late in the day. "…but o' course I'm awfully glad to have ya back. We must open a bottle of Madeira to celebrate it, later when I'm back, an' you must tell me everything 'bout yer journey."

My exhilaration was not simulated. With Mrs. Hudson in the house, my safety was granted. Holmes would not dare to resort to violence, if that had been his intent. If we were to continue our charade of the happily married couple, he would have to resign give me a free hand in my own concerns. The thought filled me with triumph. He could not dictate me!

"However, I was bound ter go out jus' now. We shall see each other in the afternoon, I suppose."

"Yes madam. May I ask you when exactly we are to expect you back?"

With an absurd trace of suspicion, I gave her an eye, but she looked back innocently enough. "So as to know when to prepare dinner", she added explanatorily.

"That's quite alright." I hesitated. "I don't know yet, but anyway I will be in fer dinner. Don't get in a hurry, but recover from yer train ride."

"Yes madam. Thank you." And with a kind smile, she withdrew to her own rooms.

oooOOOooo

The idea of Mrs. Hudson being in collusion with Mr. Holmes occupied my thoughts for much of the afternoon. Was I getting paranoid? Nothing was there to indicate that Holmes wished to do me harm. It had been just words, as usual, there was nothing behind it. I was really thinking too much –

"Kitty", Lorenzo admonished me.

"Yeah, I know. But 'ave you ever tried to look perfectly placid when inside o' you, there was a whole battalion o' thoughts, jostling each other?"

"Well, that must not be. I'm improving the facial expression as seen in the mirror, or at least I'm trying to. What is it that irks you so?" He put down his painting utensils, attentively watching me.

"Nothing, re'lly. Nothing to signify."

He watched me a minute longer without saying a word. Then – "Kitty, _how_ much longer will you be doing this?"

I abandoned my pose, turning around completely. "Doing what?"

"Lying to yourself. Now, do not take me for a fool. I do have eyes and ears, so I would have to be a fool indeed not to recognize the sort of marriage you are leading."

I lowered my eyes. "If you can perceive that much, you must also see there ain't a thing I could do to change me situation."

"Nothing you could do about it? _Ma no! _" With an excited gleam in his eyes, he left the cover of his canvas and reached out for my hands. "Kitty, you're _unhappy!_ There must be something to be done! You must leave this man, now or never!"

I shook my head with a weary smile. "And where should I go? I have nobody but him. I guess my sister Annie would taike me fer a while, but that's not actually an option, far as I'm concerned."

His irises were like golden sand on the bottom of a dark ocean. They glittered magically, mesmerizing me. "I think you know…indeed you must know…that you have at least one alternative to Sherlock Holmes."

I inhaled softly when to my surprise his arms closed in on me and he tilted his dark head. Slowly the face with the set of starry eyes inclined towards mine, and his beautifully shaped mouth touched mine, gently, gently. I trembled with forbidden pleasure. The delectable lightness of his kiss was so different from my husband's demanding, violent, half-disgusted involuntariness. My heart rejoiced in the careful caress. Oh, to be loved, to be loved like this! At one go, it restored to me my confidence and my self-esteem as a woman.

But something was missing. Pleasant though his caresses were, there was nothing like the secret thrill I had experienced so many times recently whenever I had felt Holmes' gaze linger on me. Lorenzo could not make me re-live those moments. He was young, and beautiful, and he loved me. Holmes was neither young nor beautiful, and certainly did not love me any more than his other worldly possessions. But his gaze was older; wiser, it had an effect I could not cast off so easily. Enjoying myself with other men was out of the question – the source from which I drank left me desperately thirsty.

I freed myself of his lips, though his arms still held me close. "Oh Kitty. _Mio tesoro, mio cuore. _How I have longer for this to happen…" He tried to bestow another, brisker kiss on me, but I withdrew from his arms. Stunned, he gazed at me. "But my dear - my dearest – have I done something wrong?"

I did not quite know what to say, and cast down my eyes again in deep embarrassment. "I am a married woman, Lorenzo."

He did not understand. "But that could be changed! You can divorce, or desert him."

My voice was now so hushed it was barely above a whisper. "We'll have a child!"

"A child I would love to care for! Come to live with me Kitty, I beseech you, and I will do what I can for both of you."

"Oh Lorenzo! You haven't the means to support a family."

"I will have. I am on the threshold to some success professionally. It is not yet official, but Phoebe told me confidentially that there are several prospective buyers for the picture, and one commission always results in the next. At any rate, haven't you just learned how horrible a functional marriage is? I will never be rich, I wager, but I can safely promise I will always love you – and I couldn't but love a child of yours, no matter who the father is."

His fervent words precipitated me in yet greater embarrassment. "It's impossible. He would never leave us in peace, never. I know him. He's a very vindictive man when piqued."

"We can deal with this!" he insisted, though he sounded a little less assured. "If you only told me you could feel the same for me…"

"Oh, but – " I wrung my hands. "What would people say?"

He paused, and observed me for an extended length of time. Finally, he sighed. "You do love him…your husband. Don't you?"

We regarded each other motionlessly. "Yes, I said huskily. "Yes, I love him – despite everything."

He sighed again, shook his head and put his arms akimbo. "No doubt you expect me to say: Well, then that's settled! But honestly I cannot, Kitty. I feel you are sincere in what you say – I can believe you love him. But it is an unnatural love, one that will dwindle and dissipate.

He and you were not made for each other. The affection you feel is closer to admiration – to hero worship. It is founded on an artificial convenience, not on mutual regard and respect. No, I'm serious Kitty. Everything you told me about him – everything I saw of him – you are complete opposites, really!

You are so warm, so loving and so _alive_, and he…is cold! He does not see life as you do. For him, it's about figures and factors. For you, it's about art and people and beautiful things. He'll _never _reciprocate your feelings in their entirety! And then, after having wasted a long, long time over him, you'll come to understand I am right, and you'll cease to feel like this in turn. It will pass."

I heard what he said, and partly acknowledged it, but not all of it. Lorenzo did not know Mr. Holmes like I did. He had not caught a glimpse of his softer sides, had never heard him talk about his love for flowers; had never heard him play Mendelsohn's _Lieder ohne Worte_. He could not even divine the delicious glory of having had him die in my arms….

"Please say you won't wait for it to pass, Lorenzo. Please try to overcome it, for I should be miserable to lose your friendship. Will you do that for me – for both of us?

"_Più cara amica._" He smiled a bittersweet little smile. "I could promise many things, but try as I may; I suspect I'll never quite purge my heart of you again."

oooOOOooo

We talked a long time yet, Lorenzo and I, without really adding anything new to our argument. Therefore, it was well after five when I re-entered 221b. Mrs. Hudson was bustling in the kitchen, I could hear her hum, and sing occasionally. I smiled complacently. Everything was fine. Holmes had no power over me, and even if he divined what had happened between Lorenzo and me, he would have to accept it silently. Oh, he would be so jealous! My heart made a malicious little leap at the thought. That would teach him to neglect me!

I had now reached his door, and on the spur of the moment, out of sheer high spirits, I went in to savour my triumph. He was sitting cross-legged in his most comfortable chair, holding in his hands two strings of thaw, and carefully comparing the knots that had been made with them. He barely looked up when I entered, which displeased a little.

"Good evening", I said in a gloating sort of voice, and he looked at me, but only briefly and impassively. "Good evening."

That was everything. I lingered for a while, taking off my hat and jacket, but he was too busy undoing the knots and making new ones to take further notice. Inwardly shrugging my shoulders, I left, taking my things with me, and stepped up to my own chamber.

Well, well. It might have been better, but it might have been worse. At least there had been no ugly scene. I moved the demolished pieces of my mantle clock aside on the desk, so as to make room for my things, and sat down on my bed to review everything Lorenzo had said and done.

But something was wrong. I had an idea something ought to have hopped on the duvet the moment I sat down, and rubbed its head at my elbow. However, nothing of the sort occurred. Where was Ginger Jack? I looked under the bed, behind the closet and in his basket. No Ginger Jack. I went down to the kitchen to ask Mrs. Hudson.

"The tomcat, madam? Now that you mention him, I didn't see him all day. Well, I expect he'll show up soon. It is a small house, and there is no way he could have escaped into the open." Panic began to rise in my chest. Feverishly, I searched the hall, the staircase and the bathroom. I looked in the cellar and in the attic. No Ginger Jack.

With dusty hands, my hair coming undone and a cobweb adorning my blouse, I threw open the door to Mr. Holmes' room and marched straight in, building up in front of the seat he still occupied. "Where is he", I yelled, "What have you done to him?"

But he sat there, just sat and pretended to be deaf to my ravings. Dreadful apprehensions constricted my throat, and I raised a trembling index, pointing it at him.

"I'll find him." My voice was shaky to a degree that made me sound pathetic. "I'll find him, and if he's missing a single hair, I'll kill you!"

He still did not deign to reply, seemingly lost in the contemplation of those sailor's knots. I whirled around and rushed from his room, leaving the door wide open.

oooOOOooo

Two and a half hours later, I left Mr. Sherman's menagerie shop in Pinchin Lane, the shivering Ginger Jack in my arms. Tears were pricking in my eyes, and my heart cried out for vengeance.

**Wheew! So much for mature behaviour.**

**Holmes may not have been aware what a bad shock he was giving Kitty, but still this was a most unworthy attempt to regain control over her. As regards Lorenzo…Holmes should be glad Kitty didn't elope with him, or something! He will have to be careful not to overstep the line in future, or he'll lose her.**

**Love, and thanks for your support. Mrs.F**


	62. Chapter 62

Chapter sixty-two: Frenzy

12th September 1887

"_What with my beard so long I may/ _

_Quite lack life's free and easy way." Goethe's Faust_

I spent the following days in a constant dread of leaving my cat alone in the flat, which resulted in my compliance with Holmes' wishes that I should refrain from going out. But that I obeyed did not mean that I accepted. It was from fear; and from fear alone, that I stuck to the house. But I could not be moved to leave my room, nor did I let anybody in.

For many hours I just sat on my bed, the cat on my lap, and watched over him anxiously. Mrs. Hudson called for me through the keyhole, and Mr. Holmes hammered on my door in mindless fury, but nothing in the world could induce me to desert Ginger Jack more often than absolutely necessary, and when I did, I took care to hide him under my blanket, a feeble precaution against a possible repetition of the assault.

They could not expect me to act as though nothing had happened, not this time. They could not ask of me to come out and dine with the man that had deliberately hurt me so. What he had done had made us enemies. It was not only Ginger Jack; it was the mere intention to chastise me, from a person for whom I had shown nothing but tenderness and care.

Did he or would he not acknowledge my feelings for him? I was not sure even after forty-eight hours of solitary vigil over my pet. Then, after another twenty-four hours, I felt I could stand it no longer. I needed fresh air and daylight, and we had had permanent lovely weather this past week. It could not be Holmes' desire to hold me a prisoner forever. I locked my door, fully aware that it could be re-opened with the second key within an instant, and went down the stairs.

There was a quiet conversation going on in my husband's study, but it was briefly interrupted as I passed the door, so probably he knew I was walking out. I minded no longer. Tingling warmth and a delectable sweetness in the air greeted me out on the doorstep, and I felt like a bird escaping its cage after a long, long time of captivity. I could not remember having felt freer even on the day of my dismissal from gaol.

Hide Park was now definitely autumnal. The squirrels played in high piled heaps of yellow leaves, and more leaved were being burnt further off, I could not miss the smoky smell. The bench by the Serpentine-bridge was empty, only a young woman in mourning stood silently by the waterside. She went away after I had sat down, sat down on the very bench where everything had begun.

I reconsidered my spontaneous agreement to what had been a spontaneous proposal. Had I done wrong? Should I have reclined? Did I regret it? My gloved hands stroked absent-mindedly over my belly. During the last days, spent in such immobility, I had repeatedly imagined perceiving a very small motion within, but probably it was just that, imagination.

I sighed deeply. What had Lorenzo said to me? He would care for both of us, for baby and me. No, it was impossible, and it would have been the blackest treason of my heart. I did not love Lorenzo; I loved the father of my child, loved him infinitely, hopelessly. It would never fade away, but it would never find fulfillment. He was – and Lorenzo had been perfectly right there – he was cold, a man without any but the most rudimentary sentiments; and he was glad to be that way. Perhaps I could have helped him become a different man, but he did not want to change, he did not want me. It was futile.

In a bleak mood, I sat a little longer, then passed over the bridge and proceeded on my tour around the park. Having started in the early afternoon, it was almost five o'clock when I returned home. The first thing to spring to my mind when I entered my room was that somebody had been in it during my absence. The carpet, in the exactly same position since three days, had been crumpled just the tiniest bit, and there was a faint trace of eau de cologne and cigarettes.

With a hasty leap, I reached Ginger Jack's basket, but he was there, safe and half asleep, thank God. Irresolutely, I turned on the spot, looking around for further traces the intruder might have left. There must have been some point in stepping up, provided he had not done it merely to frighten me.

But it was not so. He _had_ left something else. With my mouth wide open, I approached the bed and reached out for what was lying on the pillow. Holding it up high between two fingers, I examined it minutely. It was a bonny thing.

A powder box, all from ivory, but inlaid with silver veins on the lid, where they formed the miniature depiction of a _danse macabre_. I had seen such boxes behind the panes of the more elegant shops in Oxford Street, but had never dreamed of possessing one someday. It must have cost a little fortune. Still benumbed by the discovery, I put the little box back on my pillow and gazed at it in wonder. Three days of utter seclusion from the world had sufficed to make me forget my own birthday. It was September, the 12th, as my sheet almanac might have told me, had I taken the trouble to rip off the leaves.

The exquisite little toy still lay there, sparkling temptingly against the forest green pillow sheet. So…this was "I am sorry" in the language of Sherlock Holmes.

It was not enough.

oooOOOooo

It was a little later in the evening when I again exited my chamber. It was getting dusky behind the windows, down in Baker Street they started to light the lanterns. I could hear horse hooves clatter and boys whistle. With a deep inhalation, I fisted my sateen dress as if for courage, in the other hand, I held the little powder box.

Mr. Holmes had apparently just sat down for dinner when I entered, though Mrs. Hudson had not yet come up. My eye, subject to some moderate training during the past few months, noticed the lit candle and the glimpse of a white table napkin draped over his knees. He was reading a treatise on "voices" if one was to take the title at face value, and looked up only when I stood next to him.

"Well, Kitty?" He lowered the volume, almost listlessly. I stretched out my arm, so as to stand as far apart as possible, and placed the box in front of him on the table.

"Thank you fer the gift, but I don't want it."

He fixed his eyes on me, and for a second I could see an almost inhuman wrath agglomerate in them. But nothing permeated the unmoved exterior.

"I see", he replied with some reserve, but very politely. "Yes, I can understand. I admit things have happened that ought not have been, and that require time to be surmounted. I will grant you time, Kitty – and will take back the gift until you have overcome your grudge."

I was about to reply that this would happen on the day when hell froze, but our landlady came in this moment with the dinner tray.

"Oh – madam!" She halted and looked extremely confused.

"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson", Holmes observed calmly. "Madam will dine with me."

I was further angered by his thick-skinned implicitness, and probably my feelings could be read from my face, for Mrs. Hudson bleeped anxiously: "Oh, please do, madam…I made your favourite dish, seafood chowder. Naturally I presumed you would be consuming it upstairs…"

"No", I said hesitatingly, "I did not intend to. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

I sat down, and placed my napkin on my lap while the dishes were set out. She was a little fussy, but I was grateful to her and liked to have her near. When she left us, Holmes and I had a silent meal apart from some inconsequential remarks. I tried to imagine the evening without the preceding incidents of Ginger Jack, Lorenzo and Mr. Holmes shouting at me, and sighed a little.

He had, like most of the times, had no real appetite, and arose soon in quest of his tobacco resources. I dabbed my mouth, folded up the napkin and placed it on the table, moving my chair neatly to the edge. I had to go and see Mrs. Hudson, and thank her for her regard. Poor Mrs. Hudson. Sick first, then no real welcome back home, and then my own foul suspicions, absurd products of an overstrung brain. I really needed to –

I had not even got within reach of the door handle when a sinewy arm suddenly wound around my waist, and a raspy voice muttered: "There, there. Whereto this quickly, my little woman?"

I gasped, shocked, and needed a second or two to calm down. Another arm stole around me; he drew me toward his chest, softly kissing my temple, my earlobe. I closed my eyes as Holmes' cool breath fanned my neck; his long fingers caressed my face. "Don't run away again…" he cooed, delighted how easily he could subject me to his will. There it was again, the awful constriction of my heart. I could not breathe properly. A thousand erotic possibilities flashed my mind. And it was all wrong, so wrong. _He – tried – to – hurt – you – _

"Stop!" I panted, jerking my head so as to shake him off. He paused, and then, with an abrupt movement of both his hands, spun me around so as to face him.

"What is it?" he all but snapped. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing", I stammered. "I – I don't want to, that's all."

"Why not, pray?" he penetrated me with stony eyes.

"Because – " I grasped clumsily for an explanation. In the face of his overwhelming presence, Ginger Jack and all that seemed like a feeble, childish pretext. "Because we shouldn't. It might hurt the baby."

His gaze became, if possible, harder yet. "The baby", he echoed skeptically. He stared at me until I had enough and tried to free myself.

"Oh, hell! Think what ya will, I can only say I don't care fer it anymore! Let me go, let go!"

But he did not remotely respect my wish. Twisting my arms on my back, he shoved me into the wall. "The real reason!" he hissed angrily. "You're not usually so prudish…"

"I'll cry if ye don't lemme go!" I warned him, scared, struggling against his grip.

"Oh yes? I suppose you didn't cry when this dirty Italian approached you. Is that why my attentions are unwelcome?"

"No!No!"

He cupped my chin and raised it, so as to force me to look at him. "For God's sake, Kitty! Then why resist your rightful spouse? Why not yield and do your duty by me?"

I gazed up at him sullenly. "You couldn't maike me! Not even if I had cheated on you wiv Lorenzo a thousand times!"

This moment, Holmes lost all control over himself. Seizing me by the arm, he shook me so rudely that my head lolled back and forth. "You are my _wife_!"

"Yeah, but not yer whore!" I succeeded in liberating myself and pushed him back, when suddenly there where voices out on the stairs. We stood as though petrified, gazing at each other with eyes wide open.

"I'm not sure Mr. Holmes will see anybody without appointment!" I heard Mrs. Hudson grouse, and a heavy male tread foreboded the arrival of a second person. Casting another defiant look at Holmes, I swept out of the door and down the stairs, past Mrs. Hudson and a shabbily dressed workman.

Downstairs, the door to the kitchen stood open, and I fled into there to seek refuge. But it seemed I was not secure there, neither.

"Gotcha!" A new pair of arms was wrapped around me, and something put over my head, so that I was deprived of sight. I shrieked, but already a second person had grasped my legs, and together, they lifted me up, carrying me out of the room.

"My word! That worked well, eh?"

"Aye, it did. The old bat was ta'en in by Ted like nothin'. Le's hope 'e does a good job detaining 'er boiler, too."

"Help! Help! What's that? Put me down, this instant!" I reared and rebelled, until I realized we were out in the open, and I was quite carefully being lead into some kind of vehicle. With a frightful shaking and rattling, so it seemed to me, we drove off.

"Ernie! Perkey! I know it's you. Taike off this bloomin' bag an' tell me what's this all about!"

Low chuckling. "In a minute, girl", I heard Porkey somewhere beyond the darkness that surrounded me. "Keep it on jus' a li'le longer, or the surprise'll be spoilt."

"Mental!" I gnarled indignantly. There was just one place where we could be going, but it seemed to amuse the two overgrown schoolboys immensely that I was quite literally in the dark about everything.

Within little more than ten minutes, we had reached our destination. I was hauled off the van like a bag of potatoes, and with the men supporting me on either side, I was guided inside, where they finally took the sack off my head.

"Happy birthday, Kitty!"

It was more voices than I had been prepared for. Blinking against the light, I could detect the boys from the pub, Ernie's wife and family, and two or three of Porkey's inevitable barmaids, moreover a whole bunch of what seemed to be complete strangers.

"Well – blimey!" I gulped, overwhelmed.

"That's not all!" Porkey exclaimed proudly, obviously satisfied with the effect they had made, and presenting the bar of the _Cock&Horse, _which had been draped with the colours of Ireland. "Here it is – here it is all. Tullamore Dew, Locke's, Ballantine's, Glenfiddich, jus' name it and we have it. There's an Irish folk band, too… "

"Oh boys!" I stammered, deeply moved. "That's…._really_…"

"Gratulations, Kit", a handsome young chap greeted me. His name was Evan and I had long liked him for his friendly, easygoing manner. "They said in these parts that you were kind of under arrest by order of your man, so we made a plan to outsmart him. Teddy offered to see him and spin some yarn about a break-in at Highbury…"

"That was – fantastic!" I laughed out loud. "Good thinkin'!"

"Naw, it wa'nt his idea!" another guy protested. Evidently he had already tasted the Glenfiddich. "I made the plan, an' the others merely carried it out!"

"Sure, mate. You're the top." Evan rolled his eyes and grinned at me. "Want a first glass, Kitty?"

"Yes, I'd like that. You may get me some ale, fer the start."

The boy disappeared, and again I was surrounded by congratulators and sympathetic people that expected to hear horror stories about my berserk husband that maltreated me as a matter of routine. I was released when the musicians started to play and the attention focused on the band.

There were a bodrhàn, a banjo and several fiddles and flutes, and altogether they made a hell of a great sound. After Evan had returned and I had had a jug of I-know-not-what, I started to feel plucky and joined in a drinking game with the men, but had to drop out soon when the fellows started asking me to dance.

I wished I could describe what I sensed as I swirled through the tables and throng of people, but it was hardly a feeling that can be rendered in so many words. I was free, I was feeling myself, and I was happier than I had been at any moment during the past months. Everything was forgotten, and Mrs. Holmes did not exist anymore. I was Kitty, the carefree little girl with an apron and loose tresses flying about in the air. If a mood can at all be preserved, a frame of mind be lived through again, it is music that gives us this ability.

As I danced, I seemed to be back by the sea, on the beach, on the cliffs, the wind freely blowing into my face. The happy times of my life resurfaced, and the sad and terrible experiences were blocked out. I knew every song the band played. It was like belonging, like being at home. The potent alcohol made every face look kind and lovable. I was with friends. Friends everywhere….

"I say, Kitty! You hain't drunk enough ter look so cheerful", Ernie teased me when finally I rejoined him by the counter. In honour of the occasion, he was for once not in charge of the bar, his wife saw to that.

"Many happy returns o' the day!" she piped with an angelic smile, before barking: "Ernie! Where are them new mugs we just bought? Why do I 'ave ter do everything on me own?"

"Let me", I appeased him when he started to bluster, and went behind the bar to look for the mugs with his wife. By accident, I broke one, and thanked heaven for it being my birthday, which kept Mrs. McAlester from ripping off my head. I emerged from the place with relatively little harm done.

"Are you alright?" Evan's smiling face appeared by the counter, eyes crinkling with amusement.

"Quite. It's jus' – well. Ernie an' his wife."

"You needn't trouble yourself with it. Not today." He held out his hand, and for a moment I did not know what he wanted, when suddenly I realized the music had calmed down. They were playing a quiet ballad. "Do you want to dance?"

"Right", I said, very pleased, and took his hand.

His eyes twinkled mischievously as he drew me close. "You look very pretty tonight. Your friends had better keep an eye on you, lest you be abducted again."

"Oh …you think so?" I smirked a malicious smirk. "Well, I guess you've chosen the wrong night. Porkey and Ernie are jus' dying to get me join their foolish game again. They won't let me escape."

"Then I think I'll just have to give you your birthday kiss here, in plain view of everyone", he announced promisingly.

"You insolent boy!" I mock-scolded him. "I suppose your manners just dropped into one of the new whiskey mugs."

"Perhaps….they have." It was a poorly chosen moment when he laid his arm around me, but in any case he was awfully bad advised to do so, for the door to the pub flew open and a second later, my husband appeared in person before us, looming like a figure from a bad dream.

"_Get away from her!" _He was almost senselessly in a jealous rage, as he ripped the inoffensive joker off me and with an unequalled face punch sent him reeling into the surrounding people. Many screamed, and I believe I was among them. "This is incredible! Can't you see when a woman is wearing a ring on her finger? Can't you distinguish her from those you may safely take to your carousals?"

The braver men had recovered by now and were gnarling with dissatisfaction. There were some exclamations like: "What business of yours is it?"

"What are you doing here? Let's show 'im the way awt!"

"Who is this spoil sport?"

"And you!" He pointed at me, with dilated pupils, like a madman. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, unprincipled shrew! We're going straight home, and there you'll stay until judgement day!"

"Mr. 'olmes – " Porkey had separated from the crowd. His stubby hands raised in a becalming fashion, he stepped in our way. "Now, look 'ere, Mr. 'olmes…"

"The same goes for you, Johnson! Clear the field, or things might come back to my mind that I had thought long forgotten!" he snatched my arm, and glared about one last time before we left the party, my unhappy hosts staring after us, stunned.

oooOOOooo

"Are you off yer head?" I yanked my arm out of his hold as I tripped through the night next to him. "What possessed you? Poor boy, he had done nothing!"

"Nothing?" he spat. "In there, now!"

He shoved me into a waiting cab, banging the door shut behind us.

"Why did ya have to show up, anyways? It was a party for me, my birthday party! They all took such trouble and wanted me to amuse myself – "

"Yes, that I can see! May I ask you how it is that I, your husband, am not allowed to give you anything for your birthday; and those people are? Don't you think I am justified in keeping you at home when you use every opportunity to philander with any man that just happens to come across?"

"You are insane! Just because you are about the greatest fun wrecker alive doesn't mean I have to live like that! If I enjoy talking to other men, it's just fine, and if it's dancing, that is equally fine, and – "

" – and if it's a little more, the same rules apply, I imagine!" he fleered. "I have had enough of your escapades, once and for all. If you don't comprehend what behaviour is expected of you, I shall teach you!"

"I won't suffer yer tyranny! No other husband of my acquaintance does this to his wife!"

"Well, no husband of _my _acquaintance has been provoked to this degree, I dare say!"

We had arrived at Baker Street, and I was roughly pulled out of the cab and dragged to the front door. He fumbled with the keys with one hand, reluctant to let me go for an instant, as though I might run away the minute he had done so. "I cannot imagine Watson treating Mary this way!" I dared to say, searching his moonlit face for a reaction. And indeed, I had hit home.

He opened the door and pushed me over the threshold, and banged it shut behind us. I feared for Mrs. Hudson's sleep. "Don't say that again", he threatened. "Don't defy my anger any further - "

I squared my jaw. "It's me talking now!"

Like always when I contradicted with some asperity, he fell silent for a surprised moment. I frowned angrily. "Speaking of the Watsons, please note it is no more my mistake than yours that they are now avoiding Baker Street. Your memory might not be selective, but occasionally, when convenient for you, you prefer to forget how things really happened. Will you deny it was you who brought us into this plight with your ugly scheme? Yes, I consented, but you cannot charge me now with the loss of your friend! Not even you could be so unfair!"

"I would prefer if you'd stop mentioning him!" Holmes returned bitterly. "Our…discord…had nothing to do with you."

"That's not true! Mary told me – "

"Kitty! Do you mean to question my authority?"

"I won't believe she lied to me! And honestly, I don't know why I should owe you any respect at all if it is true you had none for my life!"

He hesitated, and a great, warm surge of anger overcame me. "You blackguard! You wanted to let me die! You saved not me, but just your own flesh and blood!"

I raised my fists and beat them against his chest, but he caught and controlled them easily. "Oh, this is absurd, Kitty! Did I not risk my life in front of your very eyes?"

"For me – or for the babe? If it had been already born, would you have left it to Al Whittaker to finish me off, I wonder?"

"Who?" He seemed puzzled for an instant, and I stammered: "Well – well – for the Ripper, of course!"

"You know his name?" He stared at me for a moment; then pushed me away by the wrists. "So, that explains many things! Oh you fool, you imbecile!"

I flinched guiltily. "Yeah, I knew him, so what? Is that such a bad crime, compared to yours?"

He ignored my words. "You've given my plan away. I should have known it. It was a brilliant plan, I had wondered for weeks and weeks how it may have been possible for him to anticipate it. But of course! It was you, your insufferable blabbermouth!"

I cringed under his contemptuous gaze. "I didn't know – I couldn't suspect – "

"Of course not!" he suddenly exploded. "Because you are a daft moron, with only me as a superior in daftness! Oh,never, never trust a woman, for she will betray you!" He clapped his hand to his forehead, desperate about his own confidence. I watched him until he had picked up courage, and took his hands off his face. "So! I've made a mistake, why not. It won't happen again. And in other respects, I won't commit any more mistakes, neither!"

He re-captured my arm and dragged me up the stairs, into my room. "Here you will remain, and see nobody! Nobody, you hear me!"

"You don't have the right!" I cried. "Mrs. Hudson won't tolerate – "

"Leave that to me", he sneered. "And keep it in mind: One step out of here, just one step into the direction of the Italian quarter…."

"No! You are not in your right mind!"  
>"I won't stand for further adventures of yours. One word with this <em>gentleman<em>, and I'll beat you black and blue, baby or no!"

He banged the door shut, but did not turn around the key in the lock. I wept silently. His words, as little credit as I gave them, were hurtful in themselves. I would have thought more highly of him than that.

Ginger Jack hopped into my arms as I sat on the floor, as if he sensed I needed some consolation. I sat up with him for what was left of the night, and at dawn started to pack my things, slowly, mechanically. There wasn't much. Jack's basket, some clothes and personal things. I wanted to take nothing Holmes had given me.

With the cat in one arm, my bag in the other, I made my way down the stairs. It was silent in the house. If Mrs. Hudson had been woken by our row, she had probably long fallen asleep again. I considered leaving her a note, but then thought better of it. It was preferable to leave at once, while the shadows of twilight still gave me shelter.

In the street, there was a similar slackness of noise. All London seemed to be asleep, though I knew the milkmen and newspaper boys would be out and about in short time. With my light baggage, I walked down the untraveled road. Strange, now that I thought of it. For more than a week, I had been deadly afraid of Holmes sending me away from him. And now – I was going voluntarily.

**Heyho!**

**Sorry for the little wait! I guess being in love myself for once does count as an excuse, eh? ;-) **

**Hmmm…that's what's called overstepping the mark. Nasty, nasty. Where will Kitty go? Will Holmes try to win her back, and how will he get up to it? What else will happen? Any ideas? **

**By the way, I believe we have now made it halfway through the story. But I am not always reliable in my estimations.**

**:D:D:D Large quantum of love, Mrs.F**


	63. Chapter 63

Chapter sixty-three: Watch you be seen

16th September 1887

"_In thee I honour human wit and art." Goethe's Faust_

"That'll do, Fanny. Put the rest o' the yarn back into the closet, please."

Giving my niece a fleeting smile, I proceeded on my round between the silently working girls. They had got along rather nicely. In their attire and the tending of their hair, most girls were much improved, and there was much less language to be berated in their subdued conversations; and less clamour in their recreational brawl. Of course, there were still lively rows and arguments in between courses, but with that I could live.

Fanny, much as I had expected, had filed in with the "lame 'uns" though she volubly contested the image of the group, and so had her sister Susan, who since the misfortune with her father had grown very quiet and introverted. I watched her sorrowfully as I passed her by, but she never looked up, doing stitch after stitch until the bell pealed. I raised my hands to control the panic that usually rose in the children when at Midday, their meager share of luncheon was in jeopardy of being missed due to tardiness.

"Slowly, now! First things first. Please deposit what you've done so far in this basket, an' file out in rows o' two. Thank you, girls!"

There was an indistinct mumbled collective answer before they obliged and departed, slowly and orderly.

"Well – shall we?" I slipped on my overcoat, donned my hat and took Fanny and Susan by the hand, one girl on each side.

"Say, I wonder what muvver 'as been cookin' fer us today", Fanny blabbed excitedly as we stepped out into the benign sunlight. "S'ppose ya won't 'ave ter eat as much as two people ter sustain the li'le 'un?" she added anxiously, and I laughed a little.

"No worries, child. Ya'll be able ter pull me through rather nicely."

But my nonchalance was far from sincere. The additional burden I constituted for my sister's already strained family was weighed heavily on my mind. Probably the worst thing was that in my new situation I would be unable to do anything in case Grahame should re-appear. The only thing, really the only thing I could do for Annie was take her daughters to school, if to a very makeshift one. But at least in this way they acquired the most basic skills which would prepared them for an existence as wives to lower middle class men, or less demanding jobs in the administration. It was better than nothing. All the same, I had a real pang of conscience every time I stepped in Annie's view.

Thankfully, she had not said much when I had appeared on her doorstep. Blood _was_ thicker than water after all, and in the way Annie perceived the world, it had been natural and almost inevitable for me to demount the "'igh 'orse" and be cast back to where I belonged, some mere inches from the ultimate gutter.

We arrived at the shabby little house in Camden Town at a quarter to one. As a rule, Annie had us wait a little after we had knocked on the door, having many things to do in the kitchen with Nicholas or her elder boys, before opening it for us, but not so today. She retreated a little into the hallway for us to enter, her face pasty and her hands raised as if she had seen an apparition.

"Gawd awmigh'y!"

"What is it, Annie?" Slowly taking off my hat, I followed her into the kitchen, where a slip of paper was lying among heaps of litter on the table. My first thought was of the bailiff, but Annie almost instantly spluttered:

"Jonathan. It's Jonathan."

"Yeah? What about 'im?" Something in her voice frightened me. We heard so rarely from our brother that each time we did, I felt compelled to think the worst.

"Why 'e's – 'e's comin'! 'e's comin' back 'ome!"

"But I – " I blinked in bewilderment. "I don't un'erstand! 'e let us know 'e had been advanced! Surely 'e can't leave 'is post jus' now? Ya must 'ave mista'en 'is meanin'…"

"read fer yerself!" She all but shoved the telegram into my face. I took the slip of paper from her, smoothed it out and read:

_Capetown, 29__th__ August 1887_

_My dearest Annie and Kitty,_

_Strong storms and tempests around the Cape have been doing severe damage to the steamships of the line, which is why I am writing to you. The company has suffered grave losses and sadly had to disband part of their senior employees into retirement, though it turned out to be my great advantage after all, since I have been suggested for further advancement to substitute one of the higher ranks. For the duration of reparations applied to our vessels, all officers have been given leave until further notice. Thus, I am sure to meet you shortly in London. I bear great news and kiss you from the distance, in the certain expectation of seeing you in person as soon as I come up. _

_All my love and care, _

_Your brother Jonathan._

"Oh – but that is – " I exchanged a quick glance with Annie, before calculating: "August the 29th – that makes more 'n two weeks since 'e set out from South Africa. Which means 'e'll be wiv us so soon!"

"Oh, but Kit! 'e writes…." Annie bent over paper, frowning. "'e writes – great news – what can that mean?"

"Who cares?" I shrugged, laughing happily. "Jonathan's comin' 'ome!"

And really, we fell into each other's arms this moment, if only for a brief second.

"I re'lly can't belive it!" Annie once more took the message and ran it over after we had calmed down, but I had caught a glimpse of the clock above the oven and issued a small cry.

"Heavens! Is it that hour awready? I must get ready fer the vernissage!"

"Now? You hain't had any lunch…"

But I did not mind Annie, rushing up the stairs to find something suitable to wear.

oooOOOooo

My arrival at Lord George Lewis' city mansion was belated, but nobody hindered me from joining the party. I pushed past people into a circular room topped with a dome of stained glass, where a man was playing quiet tunes on a spinet inlaid with golden marquetry. The visitors were standing about with goblets in their hands, conversing in low, velveteen tones. Letting my eye wander, I spotted Lorenzo up on the gallery where the bulk of the artworks was being displayed.

"Lorenzo, I am awfully sorry ter be late….I di'n't mean to be…." I panted, squeezing through between waiters and attendees. Somewhere in the crowd, I could hear Phoebe's shrill laughter.

My friend turned around as I spoke, dressed in a light double-breasted gabardine suit, his dark eyes full of warmth as they always were. "That is quite alright, my dear. I make it a habit to be late myself; it seems to convince the skeptics of my artistic valour. May I introduce you to our host, Lord George Lewis?"

"Delighted", I snuffled and extended my hand to the austere, aristocratic type of an elderly man with light blue eyes. It was accepted and shaken very gingerly.

"My dearest. Now I can discern Mr. Burini's source of inspiration for his masterly portrait very clearly indeed. This face is truly reminiscent of the Pre-Raphaelites, and this hair a quite exceptionally crimson tint. May I congratulate you on having contributed to the realization of a vision rare in contemporary art?"

All this courteous flattery was put forth without the hint of a smile, though a sense of sincerity was absolutely conveyed.

"It ain't a portrait", I demurred, embarrassed. "Me face ain't ter be seen, save the blurred reflection in the mirror. It could be – jus' any'un."

"No, no! I must protest. It is quite singular. Perhaps not strictly speaking a portrait, but definitely more than a mere nude painting. You can see – " he indicated the large canvas, framed in silver and hung on the wall behind us, "it was your person in particular that the artist wished to represent."

Lorenzo gave a forced smile and turned a little away from us, gazing over the crowd beneath the gallery.

"You rather ta'en by it!" I observed delightedly, whereupon the noble Lord almost let himself be caught smiling.

"True, I have nearly made up my mind to include it in my own private collection….but that matter rests with , of course…"

"Oh, what's he doing here!" Lorenzo suddenly issued angrily, making our heads turn swiftly. From where we were standing close to the parapet, the hall beneath the glass dome was in plain view, and among the quietly conversing groups of people, I could distinguish a single man, tall and gaunt, with a shiny top hat on his dark head, and his arms folded on his back. His eyes were riveted on the picture Lorenzo after some thought had titled: "Medusa disarmed".

"What indeed!" I hissed, diving behind the parapet. "Goin' ter stalk me, I wager!"

But part of my anger was really simulated. I could not, and would not, let Lorenzo perceive how much my husband's sudden appearance had upset me. My heart beat too quickly to even keep track. Would he try to make contact?

"You mean the fellow with the lugubrious air?" Lord George enquired lightly. "I should have known him for a stalker. I was repeatedly accosted by this person today. It so happens he desired to purchase your painting, Mr. Burini. Offered an impossible sum for it, but I told him over and over again I was not the person to deal with, and that if the artist agreed, I intended to keep it for myself. He would just not understand it."

"Kick him out!" I suggested squeakily, hiding behind Lorenzo who had gripped the parapet and glared back at Holmes fiercely.

"I couldn't, not as long as he behaves." The Lord shrugged his shoulders. "This is a public exhibition."

I peered down between the rails, and a slight shiver went down my spine that had nothing to do with the fear of being trailed….

"Your Lordship", Lorenzo suddenly said, turning around to our host, "The picture is yours, for any price you may deem appropriate. I shall sell it to nobody else."

Ever before the Lord could reply, my eyes again sought my husband. His regard was unfalteringly fixed on Lorenzo and my picture, and his brow had clouded as though he had overheard the agreement artist and buyer had come to.

oooOOOooo

But my trouble did not end there. When I returned to Annie's place in the early afternoon, Fanny was there to open the door for me. Her younger brothers were running and shouting in the kitchen and indulging in all kinds of foolery.

"Oy, auntie! 'ow was it? Didcha sell the painting? Are ya rich now?"

"Oh, darling!" I attempted a bit of a laugh and run my hand through her hair. "Hardly that. I dunno 'ow much it's gonna fetch in the end, but in any event Lorenzo is the painter an' 'e's gonna get the chink fer it."

"But it's you in the picture!" Fanny did not seem to approve of the way things were going. An' ya needs the bees, too. Muvver says ya'll need plenty fer yer divorce!"

My guts constricted slightly at the sound of the word. All previous sympathy for Annie dissipated within seconds. "Divorce?" I stammered, shoving her aside confusedly and making my way into the hallway. "Whatcha talkin' about, I'm not 'avin' a divorce. Pray go into the kitchen an' tell yer bruvvers ter hold their boxes, I'm fagged out an' want a bit o' peace."

Fanny made a small face. "Sure, Aunt Cathy." But she did not let action follow her words, but hopped on one leg to the window, moving the curtains to the side a little.

"Fanny!" I snapped huffily. "I think I told ya to establish some order in the kitchen, besides, stop peeking out! Curiosity is a very unbecoming thing in a young girl."

"In a second, Auntie. Jus' wanna see if them feller is still hangin' around out there."

"Fellers?" I pricked my ears. "What fellers, whatcha mean?"

"Them fellers as was a-standin' by the rubbish bins all day. I been watchin' them, an' they been watchin' me…."

Again, I shoved her aside and ripped open the curtains. Indeed. There were two louche loafers standing by the waste dump in the neighbouring alleyway, smoking and chatting idly. The sight was common enough in those parts, but I did not believe for a minute they were there by chance, not after what Fanny had said. And really, I had only just appeared in the window when they turned their heads to look up at the house. My eyes shot daggers at them, but they were brazen chaps, and seemed all at their ease.

Furiously I yanked the curtains back in place and went into the kitchen, blaring at the boys to ne silent. Surprised and shocked by the rancor of my mood, they retreated. I nervously drummed my fingers on the much abused surface of the kitchen table, passing it by in both directions repeatedly.

So, this was his latest device to frighten me. The blasted beggar. What did he expect from these childish antics? He was only making himself a laughing stock, I thought spitefully. I should be happy to be rid of him, but….but only…that word divorce had rung so terrible even in Fanny's sweet little voice….

I had only just finished this thought when the girl came bumping into the room, most alarmed. "Aunt Cathy! Aunt Cathy! Aunt Cathy!"

"Whatcha want?" My suffering nerves would abide no further strain. "Leave me alone, I say!"

The maiden was a bit white in her face though, and her mouth hung open. !Aunt cathy – ya must come into the parlour this instant!"

"What 'as 'appened now? Can one really _never_ 'ave five minutes to oneself in this 'ouse?"

Fanny wrung her hands as if in great exasperation. "Aunt Cathy – it's _him_!"

**Soooory! Longest wait up to now, I know. But I've been on a lovely trip to Cambridge, and now know a lot about the place where S.H. is supposed to have done his studies. It might be good for something, later on. **

**So – I think most of you will like the fact that Kitty has flown to her sister, rather than Lorenzo. I also think most of you **_**dislike**_** the fact that Holmes is still behaving horribly. We'll see what will come of it soon. Back to weekly updates, from now on! ;-)**

**P.S. I know my Sherlock appears quite OOC, and I regret that. But you must keep in mind that canon Holmes was never exposed to situations such as the one on hand, and we can only presume what he would be like if in love. **

**Your tardy love-stricken travel-enthusiast, who vows more future commitment**


	64. Chapter 64

Chapter sixty-four: The man of property

16th September 1887

"_No doubts plague me, nor scruples as well/_

_I'm not afraid of devil or hell." Goethe's Faust_

I hesitated a moment as I stood in front of the door, from which the paint was peeling off in large strips. There was no mistaking his quick, light step as he paced through Annie's diminutive parlour, as he had done so often at – dared I say it – at home. He had not come in a reconciliatory humour, I perceived, and I would be damned if I made concessions to him. Perhaps it would be better to retreat and refuse seeing him?

Too late, Fanny had already overtaken me and with shivering hands pressed the handle. I pulled myself together. "Thank ya, child. If you would now leave me alone to talk ter Mr. 'olmes in private? An' tell yer bruvvers not to disturb?"

She nodded; mouth, nose and eyes wide open. Briskly I stepped into the small room. The door made an impossibly loud clang as Fanny closed it behind me.

"So. This is where you have crept away to hide." He had made himself at home by the cards table, not smoking for once, but leafing through his commonplace book, as though my arrival were a thing of the remotest consequence to him.

"Yes. That's where." I stood still and clasped my hands in front of my skirt, leaving it for him to open the discussion that was sure to follow. He took his time, checking and double-checking his entries for the present day. It was a little dark in the niche where the table stood, only a single candle was dripping its wax on the uneven board.

I did not interrupt, I would not give him the satisfaction of blaring out my hurt, my woe, my anger. He had not deserved any better than the indifferent reception I gave him. I had received it many a time myself.

"Well!" He clapped the booklet shut with a gesture that suggested taking action rather than finishing it. "You have decided to desert me, Kitty. May I ask whether you intend returning to me at any point of your capricious little life?"

I raised my chin a little. "Is that what you have upset my niece for?"

"Do not sidestep me", he told me off. "_Will_ you return to me of your own free will? I would – consider – being forthcoming and connive at your behaviour…."

"Oh you would, would you?" I burst into a short laughter, though I have seldom experienced less mirth. "That is handsome of you, I must confess!"

He had risen and, partly turned away from me, was contemplating his fingertips. "It has earned you some credit that you did not go off with this…with this man. If I could hear – from your very lips – " he hazarded a hasty glance at my face, and I was quick to lower my eyes before I could lose myself in his. " – that you have ceased seeing him…."

I uttered another laugh, if possible less joyous than the last. "You know very well I haven't! Your visit to the vernissage was not exactly discreet."

He looked up from his hands, and this time I could not withdraw my regard in time. The humidity on the surface of his eyes had formed twin mirrors, and against the dark screens of his pupils, they reflected the minute chamber and everything in it, gave it a depth it did not possess in reality.

"I meant in private", he specified softly.

"Oh – I – I – " I closed my fists and gritted my teeth to defeat my upwelling emotions. "Oh, that is monstrous, Mr. Holmes! That is exceedingly unfair! You 'ave long satisfied yerself to that effect, and now you come 'ere and pretend you have a li'le faith in me, when I know exactly you haven't the tiniest bit! 'ow despicable you are!"

He frowned, taking a step towards me. "I don't understand…"

"O' course you don't!" I snarled bitterly. "Wiv so many things ter keep in yer mind an' notebook, you must 'ave forgotten 'bout the snitches you 'ave appointed ter nark on me…"

"Kitty, what are you talking about! I didn't…" he reached for my hand, but I retracted it speedily.

"If ye're a gentleman, then at least admit it!"

He slowly shook his head, and his lashes beat in mild confusion. In his pupil, my reflection had drowned out the room, it towered, large and glossy, in the centre of his ocular microcosm.

"I promise…I did not send spies after you…"

I waited one more second, but he said no more. Something _had_ to be said, though. He was only one heartbeat away from me…

"Fine!" I spat, eventually regaining control over my heaving chest. "Since you chose ter 'ave no faith in me, I am more than justified ter 'ave none in you, I fancy. It was one o' the meanest, lowest, crudest ideas you could 'ave come up with, but that 'ardly suprises, it jus' corresponds wiv my previous experience o' yer character. I think I would be quite glad if, now that ever'thing that might 'ave been said 'as been said, you would leave this 'ouse an' not return unless you 'ave something re'lly – "

He had retreated some steps during my speech, and his features hardened quickly into the familiar, indifferent mask. "Just a minute, my dear. It's not as easy as that. You forget there are legal ties between us. I said I would be forgiving if you decided to return of your own free will and with a concomitant measure of repentance of course. However, if you should refuse, in your obstinacy, to adhere to the agreement and stay with me, for better or worse, I will find myself compelled to show you that you have no actual choice. You're married to me…"

My lower lip quivered, but I raised my chin yet a little higher. "Marriages can be annulled through a divorce!"

"No!" he suddenly grabbed my wrists, clung to them as if to a lifesaving device. "No, you cannot divorce me. I will never provide you with a provocation…"

"If necessary, I can provide one myself!" I snapped, tensing the muscles of my lower arms, as though I could shake him off this way.

"You heartless tramp!" His face had blanched considerably at my words. "Only a shrew of your ilk would talk that way. No wonder, when I have a look about and see how you have been raised. But now you are bearing _my_ child…."

"'ow good o' you ter remind me, I'd nearly forgotten. Now please, would you 'ave the kindness ter remove yer 'ands an' go away? I'll see ya in court, anyways."

He let go off my wrists, but shook his head from left to right slowly. A nasty smile had distorted his visage. "Oh, oh, oh, oh," he tutted. "That won't do. You haven't the money Kitty. You have no connections. And they always give preference to the father in cases such as this. Just look at yourself and confess it: You stand no chance against me."

His words hurt so much I would have liked to spit into his face, corroded with arrogance and self-righteousness, but I controlled myself. It was the child he wanted, not me, I understood that now. There was no room for passion in our negotiation.

"Ye're mista'en", I returned, flaunting far more confidence than I had, "utterly mista'en. It's true that at the present moment, I can't lay 'ands on any sum that may be required, but legal proceedings do take their time and my brother will be wiv me before long. He's become a fairly rich man, perhaps richer than you are, an' do not doubt 'e'd do everything, everything it takes ter get me outta this misery, being yer wife…"

Sherlock Holmes laughed. He tossed his head back and laughed that it resounded eerily from the walls of the parlour. "You fool, you foolish little girl! Will you never grow up? Will you never see that power is not to be gained through money, but through brains? You and your precious family may try what you will, in the end it will be my wit, and my knowledge, and my associations, to beat you. I have never used these advantages against the law, but, by Jove, if you persist, I shall be tempted to do so!"

My mouth opened slightly. What did he mean? Did his arm really reach thus far? My uncertainty must have shown on my face, for I could see the contemptuous gloating on his.

"You wouldn't!" I whispered, suddenly seized by fear for myself and those closest to me. "You wouldn't …deliberately harm me…"

He ceased sniggering and lowered his head, until it was on one level with my face. "I want that child!" he hissed in my ear. "I want it! It's mine, if you haven't defrauded me from the beginning!"

I blinked. My lids were heavy with disbelief and hurt. "Do you seriously believe that?"

"N – no", he conceded in a drawl. "Not if you can plausibly assure me – "

"Mr. Holmes!" I looked at him furtively. "Would I, under the present circumstances, lie to you if the child weren't yours?"

"No, you would not, naturally." His face was still so close to mine that once, his lashes briefly got entangled with a bit of my hair. Like a little bird, it flashed my mind, like the wings of a little bird in my hair….

"Then I was right in my presumption! It _is_ mine." His head was raised again, and so was my temper. I was almost glad about his insolence. Had I really just felt like – like - ?

"But it is also mine!" I protested loudly. "You can't take it away from me jus' like that!"

"Can't I?" he gibed. "Let's see. Anyway, you are mine equally, and I will have both, you and the child. It's only asking my right, after all. You cannot get the better of me, and you know it!"

"Ye're mad!" I tried to dive away, but he had wound his arms around me, ignoring my gurgling shrieks and my struggling, and pressed me to his hard, bony body.

"Don't expect me to leave you to this long-haired wretch! You belong to me! To me!"

"I despise you!" I ejaculated in between gasps, his hand uncomfortably strangling my throat.

"You _despise_ me? After all that was done for you?" he gripped me harder yet, leaving marks all over my neck, my arms. "God, but you _are _thankless! You shall give birth to this child, and never see it again! I certainly do not feel for you!"

"You're abominable!" I cried. "At least, Lorenzo would never…"

"I warn you, Kitty. If I hear talk about you and the Italian – one single word - I'll _wear you down_."

"No! No, there is nothing – has never been – I should have, I know that now, but I haven't!"

"A missed chance, eh?"

"This 'ere is not about Lorenzo, Mr. Holmes. Don't pretend it is. Even if I _had_ cheated on you with him, it would not account for your - "

"Hold your noise, tart!" he seized me by my hair, about to give it a proper tug. "You're worse, far worse than any gutter snipe out in the streets of London. I'll show you how – "

But that moment, cloddish, hasty steps became audible in the hallway, and we stopped for a second.

"What's goin' on in 'ere?"

Annie stood in the door frame, almost filling it in its height as she certainly filled it in its width. Only through the overtures above her shoulders and between her legs the boys were to be perceived, standing behind their mother in the corridor and trying to peep in. We let go off each other instantly, and Holmes' hand flew to his collar in a fashion almost compulsive.

I did not seriously believe that Annie's appearance would in any way have impeded him, but perhaps it was the watchful gaze of children, resting upon him; that had brought him back to reason. It took him only some fractions of a second to become his straight; composed; orderly self. Annie watched him with hawk eyes, and mutely, but hesitatingly gave way as he reached for his cane and hat and made for the exit. He was so rash and snappy that he even brushed the candle from the table. It dropped to the floor and was extinguished at once.

Nothing further was said until he had reached the door and turned around once more. His eyes found mine and absorbed them without difficulty. "I _will_ have that child", he averred. Then he was gone, leaving a void in the cramped room and in my heart.

**Bugger! Again, more time has passed than I can allow for. So much for weekly updates! If it happens again, you may write me foul abuses instead of reviews ;-)**

**So, Holmes has not improved at all. And Kitty's temper doesn't help much. Question: If H. has not sent the men to watch Kitty's abode; then who are they? **

**I would once again like to thank my lovely reviewers, especially those whom I can't send individual answers. You are appreciated all the same!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	65. Chapter 65

Chapter sixty-five: Back Home

24th September 1887

"_Go hence and seek yourself another slave!" Goethe's Faust_

The visit remained an incident largely undiscussed between my sister and me, though I could learn from her unwontedly thoughtful air that it had not left a favourable impression on her. I did not attempt to apologize for it, but whiled away my time taciturn, uncommunicative, and with dark apprehensions on my mind.

Would my husband really go as far as he had implied? Was his love so envious? Or had he ceased to love me altogether, had everything between us been just a brief flare of what human emotions were left in him? I knew…I knew he had cared at some point. There was no mistake. Even in my most love-stricken days with the Baron Gruner, I had been dimly aware he did not really care for me, save as a toy to distract and amuse him.

But with Mr. Holmes I had had no such misgivings – not of late. I even had thought we had left the stage of pure obligation behind us, of the business agreement between employer and employee….

Even so, I reminded myself, something in him had changed, his affection had assumed unwholesome, distressing proportions, and I could not imagine returning to him under these conditions, certainly not after he had tried to force me. I could not stand the hypocrisy of his unacknowledged love, would not be with a man that was too ashamed of his feelings to admit them to himself.

No, no, no, impossible. Relent now and submit to this state of things forever. But – at this point in my repetitive train of thoughts, I usually would cover my swelling stomach with both my hands, feeling the warmth and imagining the life inside. What if he was stubborn enough to persevere through this whole legal business thing? What if he could secure the right of custody for himself, and leave me out in the cold? It was abhorrent, but conceivable. The kind of men I was falling for, again and again, liked to destroy their enemies and also their former lovers, it seemed. I had an inkling that if I would just seek Holmes out, and ask his forgiveness….but that was too absurd; and my pride would not have it. A reconciliation was possible upon my terms, or not at all! Which meant not at all, to be sure.

We received another; and more concise letter from brother Jonathan the subsequent week, and with it the exact date of his arrival in London. Thus, a small crowd had congregated on the respective day at Paddington, consisting of Susan, Fanny, their brothers, me and Annie with little Nicholas in her arms. The children were quiet and solemn, having no recollection of their uncle that would induce them to rejoice, but still they were sensitive to the atmosphere of impatient expectation that emanated from their mother and me.

I do not know about Annie, but my soul exulted when the young, sunburnt man in the naval officer uniform debarked from his compartment and stepped out on the platform. Even this moment, I could not help noticing the appreciative glances from the female passengers that had shared his compartment and now tried their best to keep pace with the impatient junior officer, whose smart blue eyes had found his welcoming committee within seconds.

How changed he seemed, how self-confident, how man-of-the-worldish! He differed remarkably from the shy youth that had set out so many years earlier. His red hair, the only chagrin his physical appearance had ever given him, was trimmed into a military short cut, and – was that an earring? He approached us rapidly, leaving his group of admirers behind, and carefully pressed us to his bosom.

He winces a little at as he caught a glimpse of the scars beneath the veil of hair I invariably wore to the side of my neck, but abstained from a remark. Instead, he observed: "Heavens, but 'ow you've grown up, li'le Kitty. Las' time I saw you, you was wearin' short frocks an' chasin' the neighbour's nippers. Been a while, eh? Annie, those chavies all yers? Cor, you used yer time well!"

"Jonathan!" Annie just managed to stammer, whilst our brother's smiling eyes glanced at each of the children in turn.

"What a journey you must 'ave 'ad", I remarked, mainly to overcome the strange embarrassing void that usually opens up between people that have not seen each other for a long time. "You gotta be tar'd out."

But Jonathan hardly heard what I said. Annie had precipitated herself on him, wrapping her large fleshy arms around him. "Johnny, boy – ye're back 'ome!"

oooOOOooo

6th October 1887

"So, he moved you all into an apartment in Bow Street? I say, that was handsome of him. He must have grown quite wealthy, then?"

"I always knew Jonathan would be the one of our fambly ter rise in the world. But e'en I did not count on such good fortune. 'e fit us up wiv a flat, furniture, a porter, two maids…"

"That sounds quite wonderful."

Mary Watson and I were sitting in the window of _Buszard's_, and the sunny small café was, apart from us, as good as empty.

"You must come to visit soon. It is such a joy ter 'ave a home where you can receive callers without being ashamed! O' course, the children are still summat ill-mannered, an' Annie's bossing around 'er new staff brazenly…"

"Still, it almost seems too good to be true. But I hope, in spite of your altered circumstances, that you will continue supporting me at the Street Girl Mission?"

I evaded her direct gaze. "Mary…to be quite honest, the apartment in Bow Street is just a transitional solution. Jonathan 'as other plans for us. 'e's the 'ead o' the fambly now, an' I feel an obligation towards him that makes me subscribe to his plan wiv joy."

Mary's pupils were slightly dilated. "What do you mean?"

"'e bought back our childhood 'ome in Ireland, an' 'e means ter taike us all to live there. O' course, 'e'll be away often due ter 'is work, but when on 'ome leave…"

My friend needed some moments to digest the news. Then, with a light clank, she put down her cup and inclined towards me. "Kitty, you can't do this."

"Why not? It is the fulfillment of a dream we hardly dares to dream all those sad and dreary years through. You cannot believe 'ow beautiful it is, Mary. Quite close to the sea, but you 'ave ter cross a stretch o' woodland to get there. First thing, you perceive the smoke from the chimneys above the tree crowns, an' then you can see the gables, painted wiv a coat o' dark green colour. I wonder whether that was changed by the intermediate owner? To the left, there used to be a stack o' wood, supplied by my father for the fireplaces in the 'ouse, an' to the right the small garden where my mother used ter grow lettuce an' such. An' then the stables with our chicken an' our 'orse – it'll be empty now, naturally. And beyond the 'ouse, a steep an' swampy meadow, misty and mysterious in the twilight hours…"

"I did not mean to suggest you had no love for your birthplace, Kitty. It is very natural that you should feel attached to your former home and welcome an opportunity to see it again. But – "

" – but what? Nobody in their right mind would cast away such a chance. The house we were chased away from! We shall ive there again, wiv nobody ter taike it from us…"

Mary wrung her hands in desperation. "But what about your sister? I understood you and she lived together like cat and dog! Could you really stand staying under one roof with her permanently?"

I cast down my eyes. "Annie has been very good to me throughout these last weeks. I appreciate that. Despite all that I have been reproached with, I am not unthankful."

"Of course you aren't. I only thought…with all her children born and brought up in England…and their father an Englishman too…."

"Another reason for Annie to go. She'll be much safer in Ireland, and also happier. Staying in this 'ere country 'as brought only misery to every member o' the fambly. I myself cannot remember being truly happy after we'd left the ol' country. An' if Annie remained 'ere, Grahame might reappear at any time an' lay the same claims on her that Mr. 'olmes 'as laid on me."

She narrowed her shrewd eyes. "So, this is why you wish to go? You want to escape his prosecution? You think that in Ireland, he'll be unable to disturb your peace?"

"Well, it'd be a bloomin' bit harder fer 'im ter molest me there. I am an irish citizen by birth, and am under the protection of the Irish law if I chose to return there. Hopefully, it will provide equal protection fer a child o' mine that's born there. I hain't done any research on that question yet."

Mary reached out over the coffee table with her hands, in a fashion that could only be described as pleading. "I seriously ask you to reconsider your decision, Kitty. I'm sure Mr. Holmes won't persist in his endeavor…he can't have meant what he said…"

For an answer, I only retrieved an official written communication from my handbag, bearing a sender of the name of Mr. Charles Attard, solicitor of the Inner Temple. My companion's pretty face whitened some nuances as she ran it over, but she retained her stance. "It's just an attempt at intimidation, dear. He may have his faults, but I'm sure his disposition is too noble for him to proceed in such an odious business. Perhaps – if you could only bring yourself to – talk to him – "

"Our amiable li'le interview the other day was sufficient ter demonstrate that proceeding in this affair is just what 'e intends ter do…at all costs. I know 'is charrickter as well as you do, an' better. He may be a fair player as a rule – but on this point, 'e is jus' plain unreasonable. He'll never relent! And I cannot risk havin' to give up me child to a thinking machine that wishes ter create its analogue!"

"Kitty, I beg you to take your time and review your feelings!" The more steadfast I was, the more agitated Mary appeared. "Think of what you are leaving behind! All of your friends, for once!"

I smiled at her. "I shall miss you…"

"I was not only referring to myself. There are people that depend on you!"

"An' who would that be? I have broken ties wiv Lorenzo, for 'is own safety. If Holmes does not shrink from espionage, who can tell to what lengths he may go? Then there is Natasha. I've been talkin' ter the man she's walking out wiv, an' he assured me he wouldn't postpone the proposal much longer. Natasha then will need me no more."

"Well, but what about the chaps at the pub? They'll have to go without you…"

"I can't help that. They'll still 'ave one another, won't they?" Despite myself, I tears were urging to shed from my eyes, and my tone turned into aggressive. "But I want to leave! I can't stand this place anymore! I have to go! I have to!"

"You still love him", Mary said flatly. It was not a question, but I felt compelled to answer, crying defiant tears.

"O' course I do! What would I have to leave for if I didn't?"

oooOOOooo

I left poor Mary in a state of sad befuddlement. But somehow, I felt so angry. If she knew I still felt deeply for the man, why would she not understand my need to go? It was not out of fear. I was neither a weakling nor a coward. I would fight for my child, this way or the other. What I could not bear, what I absolutely had to get rid of was the proximity…the dreadful proximity, and the danger that he might suddenly appear…..

The cheerful furniture at Bow Street did not cheer me up at all this day. I had been so happy and proud picking chaises, and wall sconces, and silken gobelins, knowing that Jonathan relied on my taste and let me have my way with the interior. The lovely city apartment did leave nothing to ask for; it offered enough space for our family, so used to very constricted surroundings. There was a single room for every adult, one large room for the girls, and one for the boys, as well as a nursery for baby Nicholas.

But today, all the splendor of our Louis XVI sitting room was wasted on me. I glowered at myself in the folding mirror, wiping away sullen tears as I removed my hat and hatpins. So absorbed was I by my reflection that I only realized the maid's entering when she gingerly cleared her throat.

"A visitor for you,madam."

"I won't see anyone now, Louise", I returned in a gruffly voice, which I hoped would be enough to discourage further pressing on her part, and stubbornly scrutinized my stained face.

"But the gentleman is most insistent, madam!"

I pricked my ears. Lowering my hands and turning around, I asked: "Who is the gentleman, Louise? One of our regular callers?"

"Oh no, madam."

"Did he give a name, then?"

"Yes, madam. Mr. Holmes, madam."

I gasped gently, and clasped my hands without knowing that I did. "Where is he?"

"In the anteroom, madam. I told him you had gone out, but…"

"Show him in."

I turned back to the mirror and inhaled deeply, several times. So, his spies had reported my change of address to him. Could I then never, never be safe of –

"Mr. Holmes, madam."

With a much practiced courtesy, Louise ushered in the gentleman. I flinched, and started. May the hokey fly! This was not who I had expected.

**Weeeeell….*giggle* I think this gives room for some questions – which will all be solved next chapter, of course. Little romance in this one, I know….but one can't always be lucky ;-)Hope you liked it, anyways!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	66. Chapter 66

Chapter sixty-six: Passers-by

6th October 1887

„_With uncanny horror that man makes me shrink/ _

_He is a knave, I really do think!" Goethe's Faust_

I had to let a moment pass ere I had collected myself. "You!" Mycroft Holmes entered my living room, sneering. As usual, his gait was more of a prowl, which together with the meager, famished appearance created the impression of a lissome, slippery beast. "What are you doin' 'ere!"

"I am not on a social visit, as you may have guessed, Miss Winter."

He took his time, standing just there in the middle of the room and peeled off his black gloves. I set my arms akimbo and glowered. There was no reason to simulate a respect I did not have for this man, so I gave unrestrained vent to my resentfulness. "If ya came ter get some amusement outta me misery, you'll now experience a sore disappointment. I've found other people ter care for me, an' me an' my baby are as healthy an' chipper as could be!"

Mycroft's cool grey eyes briefly grazed my face, no longer stained but still bearing the marks of tears, before they wandered across the room, lingering here and there on the costly décor.

"I was in no doubt, and certainly in no worry; that you would fail to find people to care for you. Women of your sort frequently fall, but they are wont to land on their feet with just the same regularity. Nor do I doubt you have risen in the world, in your own little way – or let us say, as far as money will elevate your ilk. However…"

He pocketed his gloves, but did not assume a seat, and merely re-directed his chill-inducing glare at me. "I will not conceal my relief at not having to establish kinship with you. I am not interested in the particulars of your story, but I presume my brother has finally grown tired of you, or recognized you as unsuitable for his endeavour."

"Wrong!" I returned gloatingly. "It was I who deserted him. Surely he told you nothing different?"

Mycroft laughed a soft, snorting laughter. "Dear me, you do not believe I am here at Sherlock's behest? No, no, honestly, I very rarely act as an ambassador between my brother and his dependents."

I stared at him, puzzled. He had not come about the child? What for, then? My visitor meanwhile had regained his sedate attitude, and, now merely chuckling to himself, brushed invisible dust grains off his immaculate clothes.

"No, my dear. To be sure, I am obliged to you for severing the ties, and thus saving my family from the stigma of a connection with your…people. Of course, Sherlock would have come to the same opinion once he was back in his right mind – he must have lost his head temporarily. You know, when he brought you along to the Diogenes in summer, I even contemplated the possibility of you being an agent, or a spy, or anyone with an agenda to establish influence over him. But half an hour was ample for me to convince myself you were just what you seemed to be: A common, harmless slattern…"

I closed my fists, and the only reason I did not use them was to prove the blasted wretch wrong, to show him who the lady was and who the offender. "I can see no need to go on an' let myself be insulted in my own home. It would be very much to my liking if you, sir, would leave me now, an' let your brother know I desire no further visits, neither from him nor from you – "

"Just a minute!" Mycroft raised his arm, and for the first time, there was something urgent, yes, something beseeching in his deportment. "It won't be to your liking at all if you send me away without hearing what I have to tell you. I dare say you would come to regret it."

I held my breath, watching him very closely, and almost unconsciously obeying when he motioned me to sit down. He remained on his feet, returning my watchful gaze and staying silent. Eventually, I could stand it no more. "Speak out!" I demanded. "What do you want?"

And then, Mycroft said something very strange. He said: "I want your help, Miss Winter."

oooOOOooo

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!" Very unfamiliar cries were delivered in a very familiar voice as the owner of 221b Baker Street crossed the hall to reach the violently knocked-upon door.

"Dr. Watson!" Surprise was still written all over the landlady's face as she opened it. "You here! It must have been ages!"

"Mrs. Hudson, please!" Watson stepped in and put his hands on the old lady's shoulders in his agitation. "Is Holmes in his chamber?"

"He is…but…" Mrs. Hudson was much perturbed, but the doctor just left her by the open door and rushed up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. The door to Holmes' room was equally open, and its occupant quite blatantly at home, as could be gathered from his things on the wardrobe, and the smell of recent smoke in the atmosphere.

He had evidently been trying new disguise on his person, for he was still wearing a foxhunter's jodhpurs, leather boots and red jacket, and the habit of a gypsy, a railway porter and a French gentleman with white hair and a _barrette_ cluttered the room. Holmes, who had been issuing hoarse expressions from the hunter's parlance in a thick Scottish accent, fell silent and ceased gesticulating with his riding crop. A profound and embarrassing silence set in and endured.

Finally, Holmes cleared his throat and put the crop aside. "I did not know you were coming."

"How could you", the doctor replied, deeply moved to see his friend again after such a stretch of time, and deeply mortified by the recollection of their last private encounter.

"Well I knew _someone_ was coming. The uncharacteristic quality of your knock, your steps, however…" He sighed, and finally removed the gaudy red jacket, which made him seem a little less like a bloodthirsty huntsman and a little more like himself. "It is good you've come. I needed a break from the Scottish identity."

He sat down in the club seat, flung his spindly legs, still in their riding boots, over the arm rest, and picked up a cigar case from the side table. "Have one?"

"No thank you", Watson replied stiffly, suddenly remembering why he had come. "I think you can divine the reason of my coming. "

"Considering the amount of visits you have paid me for my own sake lately, I would feel inclined to suggest you have come about Kitty", Holmes replied lazily, pulled out the match and lit his cigar. The spicy smell of Turkish tobacco was both pleasant and irritating, it dispersed in playful, curly plumes and trickling down to the floor in flaky white ashes. "Are you sure you wouldn't like one, doctor."

"An account of very disturbing content has reached me", Watson insisted, taking a step closer towards his immovable former friend and associate, of whom he now could see only the garish boots and the dark, shiny back of head.

"Via Mrs. Watson, I presume", the back of head figured philosophically, and another large plume was sent toward the ceiling, and _en route_ seemed to curl into a question mark.

"That is so. Holmes, I very seriously hope you can disclaim what she told me about a court procedure you have initiated against Kitty?"

"I cannot." Sherlock Holmes turned around in his seat, one arm laying on the backrest languidly. "But surely, it is needless to communicate the minutiae to you? Surely, Mesdames Watson and Holmes have put their lovely heads together and devised a strategy to denigrate me further in your eyes?"

The doctor shook his head vividly. "No, no it is not fair Holmes. Do not try and turn the tables on us. If Mary hadn't told me, the affair would have come to my notice through some other channel. Moreover, I have not come to lecture you on your morals. I know better than that."

The hurt was profound and defiant in the detective's unsearchable eyes, but Watson did nor spare him. "Much rather, I came to provide _you_ with news that apparently have failed to reach you, and you will forgive me if I add that they are only the consequence of your very own actions."

He paused, Holmes' eyes still riveted upon him. Finally, the detective broke contact, swiftly beating his lashes a couple of times and taking another draught on his cigar. "I say, you know how to keep up an audience's tension, doctor. One of your superior qualities as a storyteller, I reckon. Has something happened to the child? I suppose not, I certainly would have been told if it were so."

"No indeed. Mother and child are both well and under the financial and tutelary chaperone of an elder brother."

Holmes flipped away the butt. "Money will avail her nothing. But speaking of brothers…"

"Holmes, they are leaving the country!" Watson flared up, piqued past the limit of the sufferable. "They are going to Ireland to evade you! Speak up man, you can't just sit there like Lao-tse on the water ox!"

"And what can I say, then?" Sherlock Holmes slowly rose from the objectionable seat and proceeded towards the fireplace even slower, hands put to the small of his back, like an elderly man. "There is nothing more to be said. That settles the matter. The clever child has outwitted me, and in addition to the satisfactory awareness of possessing an ingenuity and prowess to which I must bow, she will have personal freedom for herself and for her offspring. That is all there is to it. I wish both of them a comfortable future."

Watson stood still for a moment. It was one of the few times in his career that he did not seem to find the right words for what he wished to express. There were moments when a "For God's Sake!" or "Pull yourself together, man!" did not appear helpful in the least. Eventually, he cleared his throat with a soft hum-hum. "But…what about you, old chap?"

The other man now stood with his back against the unlit fireplace, hands deeply buried in his pockets. "Me? I haven't decided yet. I expect I can get the marriage annulled…pull some strings, if necessary. There are other acquaintances I have made in my time, other women in the streets of London that would be willing to give their body and soul in exchange for a safe home. Kitty Winter can be substituted in no time at all."

"In this house – no doubt. But in your heart, Holmes? I doubt it. She has got too close, hasn't she? That's why you tried to get her back when you thought you could force her, and that's why you pretend being glad to be rid of her when you understood you couldn't."

"You may add that to your many erroneous beliefs about me." The man by the fireplace sounded weary. "Fact is, I shall be glad when it is all over. The past weeks have been a strain on my constitution. You can call that love, or being in love, if it pleases you…"

"They have? What do you imagine they have been for Kitty? Or do you think of her at all, save in your self-centered, egotistic way? Have you not considered what it means for her, having to leave the country by the malevolence of a single man, without a choice?"

"She won't be going to Ireland," Holmes replied flatly.

He really sounded very tired, but Watson was too bewildered to take notice. A strange feeling of being in the dark about something had intruded upon him when Holmes had accepted the status quo so easily, and it was increasing by the minute. His former comrade definitely knew something he, Watson, did not have a clue about, and he wanted to learn what that was.

"How do you mean, she won't be going? Of course she will, the cabins on the _Conqueror_ have been booked, next month she and her family – "

"She won't go to Ireland", Holmes repeated in the same flat voice. "She won't, because she does have a choice."

"Does she?" Watson's eyes now positively resembled a set of saucers. "What will she have to do, then, to remain undisturbed?"

The day outside had long died away, and the niches in the room were all dark by now. Holmes' distinctive face was partly in the gloom, partly illuminated by some remaining light from the window to the road.

"_Pas grand' chose_. She will only have to destroy me."

oooOOOooo

"My help?"I do not suppose my expression of utter confusion was very hard to read for my caller.

"You heard me correctly." Mycroft was looking down his nose at his nails, in a fashion reminiscent of his brother. "Or rather, let us say business relations might be established between us from which both of us could benefit."

Highly skeptical of any business with any Holmes holding any benefit for me, I tried to rise from divan, but he withheld me with the imperious gesture I knew so well. "I advise you to retain your seat and to hear before you speak, Miss Winter."

I wrinkled my nose. "Why call me Miss Winter all the time? I am yer brother's wife still, an' I still go by 'is name, whether you like it or not!"

"That's the very point. You are his wife." Mycroft missing an opportunity to scorn me was a clear indicator that he meant business. "But why are you his wife? How did you come by this predicate? Now come, come Miss Winter, I can count two and two together. It was a question of convenience, wasn't it? What you were in want of, any hopped-off halfwit could tell. But in _his_ case, I wager things were different from what an outsider would suspect. I wager what he wanted was – this."

And with a gingerly index, he pointed at my stomach, now distinctly rounded. I forced myself to raise my eyes and meet his gaze. "Correct."

"We aren't brothers for nothing, Miss Winter. These powers are peculiar to both of us, though we often disagree as to in what way they ought to be used." Mycroft gave me a fleeting smile that made me comprehend the nature of this difference within seconds.

"Yeah, I suppose you do." I endeavoured to put my arms akimbo again with an air of thorough disapproval, but my visitor only tutted. "No need to act the irreproachable virtue for me, Miss Winter. This is just between you and me. I could safe your skin, you know. Do not believe that solicitors in your brother's pay will do that for you. Nor will immigration to Ireland put an end to the affair."

My mouth gaped open with outrage. "'ow d'ye - ?!"

He raised his hand, silencing me. "I know all I need to know about you, Miss Winter. That must be enough information. Do not make the mistake to consider yourself in safety or to underestimate my brother's determination. He's got devices at his hands that are far from lawful – far from it, miss. And if it would be him using those, nobody would be the wiser, neither judge nor barrister. You have had your dealings with him. You know what I say is true."

I lowered my eyes, pained by the truth I had to acknowledge his words conveyed. "I won't be safe with baby in Ireland?"

"I'm afraid no."

"But you could help me? How? Why?"

Mycroft sighed the sigh of the long-suffering. "Let it be enough that I can and would, Miss Winter. Not out of particularly warm feelings I foster for you, rest assured. But one hand washes the other, and you could be extremely useful to me. My brother and I, you see – "

He turned to the side and passed one hand over his mouth, and again a sharp pain flashed through me at the family mannerism. "We had some disagreements as of late. Nothing to signify, and nothing that would concern you in any way. Fact remains – "

"O' course!" I burst forth. "The Devonshire tin mine!"

"He told you that?" Mycroft asked sharply, and for the very first time I thought I detected a sense of uneasiness in him. "Well, never mind. As I said, the affair doesn't touch you at any point – save its redemption. I would be very unwilling, very unwilling Miss Winter, to leave the place I have been working for so hard, this seat in Her Majesty's confidence, to my brother Sherlock. He never deserved of the national interest as I have done. He never was there when his country needed a man of our qualities; his little conundrums were always more important to him. No, my brother is not a politician, and I wish to welcome him into this arena as little as I wish to welcome you into the family."

I shrugged my shoulders. "What could I do to bring 'im around? It will not surprise you to 'ear that my word 'as very li'le weight wiv him these days."

"Do not be silly, I do not want you to negotiate with him. I just wish to bring to the public attention that my brother is not as morally inviolably as is generally believed. I need you to sell your story to the press."

"My – story?" I could not trust my ears. "The story of our marriage, you mean?"

"How he bribed you…how he forced you to have a child…how he heartlessly neglected you…whatever you like", Mycroft said lightly. "There is no need for strict adherence to the – ahm – actual facts. Just give a nice, juicy account to the newspapers, and the day after the whole country, and especially the royal lady, will know Sherlock Holmes for the ordinary man he is – no better than his brother in moral respects, as he certainly is not in conducting national policy."

I shook my head violently. "You ask me to ruin him? The father of my child, your brother?"

"Your reluctance is stirring, Miss Winter", Mycroft gibed, "but, no doubt, short-lived."

"So _you_ think!" I cried out angrily. "But I will never betray Sherlock, not in a thousand years!"

"You will change your mind during the grueling trial, at the very latest", Mycroft drawled, taking out his gloves again and advancing the door, "but I shall leave you alone now to turn the matter over in your mind. Just one more thing, Miss Winter: In all you say or do, do not forget your personal safety may depend on your cooperation."

He was almost out of doors when he added: "And that of your child, no less."

**Mean rat! Sadly, Mycroft has a point. Kitty must accept his terms, or face Holmes as an adversary. Or must she?**

**What is Holmes really thinking? What are his feelings? Will he rain on her parade, or leave her alone, and let her go to Ireland with her family, never to return?**

**Either way, it's going to be no easy affair to settle!**

**Big smile and thank you to lovely reviewers… I regret the story may have become slightly disjointed due to longer update intervals, but we'll come to terms with that! **

**Cheers! Mrs.F**


	67. Chapter 67

Chapter sixty-seven: Oscillation

6th October 1887

"_I but with horror waken to the sun/ I'd fain weep bitter tears…" Goethe's Faust_

It had taken Sherlock Holmes a full twenty minutes to make himself be understood by the doctor, but gradually Watson grasped the situation Kitty and the Holmes brothers found themselves in. Once the meanness of Mycroft's scheme – as anticipated by Sherlock – had saturated his brain, he gave an indignant sniff.

"How very dishonourable! Surely, Holmes, you cannot see such a plan be prepared, and not raise weapons against it? You must take action, old chap! You must prevent Mycroft's perverse proposal!"

"It is too late for that", the other man in the room replied with the same, irritatingly despondent voice. "It would be mistaking my man to suppose Mycroft had not seized the very first opportunity to hit me where I am most vulnerable. He has taken his steps, approached my wife, and she consented. To think otherwise would be an illusion."

Watson violently shook his head. "No, no, I can't believe Kitty has, or will either, consent to such a vile plan!"

"Won't she?" Holmes chuckled, but it sounded hollow in the dim light. "My dear doctor, you forget we are talking about a woman who traded herself for some comfort and the outward appearance of respectability, a respectability I regret to say she does not actually possess. Why would she hesitate? I neither doubt her good nature nor her…shall we say, adherence.

But as I have had occasion to demonstrate in the past, with a mother, the safety and wellbeing of her child goes first, which in her view must be her very own keeping. In the case of a child, the father becomes second of importance. If he must be removed to grant security, he will be removed, and you could not even judge the protective parent. I would trust women to do such a thing that in other respects differ tremendously from Catherine."

He took out his timepiece and checked it – a broad wink for Watson to relent and leave him be; but the doctor was not yet ready to surrender. He tried another strategy.

"If she does, it is you who pushed her into it!"

"Perhaps I did. It doesn't matter now." Holmes seemed to finally realize the state of near darkness in his chamber, for he set out to turn up the gas, thus avoiding the upset face of his caller.

"How can you say so? Holmes, it _does_ matter a great deal! This is about you; inactivity will mean digging your own grave, both personally and professionally! Not that I would think Kitty capable of such a monstrosity…not really", he stammered hurriedly.

"She will be, take my word for it. As for myself, the public chatter cannot touch me anymore; I don't give sixpence for the preservation of my _good name_. That is one of the most notable differences between brother Mycroft and me."

Watson felt he was at his wit's end. Never before had words, good, persuasive arguments, flown him in this ignominious manner. In a final attempt to leave some impression on a man whom, despite all, he was wishing the best, he uttered: "If the public opinion can't touch you, then what can?"

Holmes did not turn around, so he ventured another advance: "I don't believe it is still the child you wish to obtain, my friend. I believe it is rather the woman who bears it. Is that possible?"

Holmes' hands rested immovably on the mantelpiece, head slightly bowed. "I would prefer putting an end to this discussion. Nothing could be gained by its continuation."

Watson sighed inwardly, prepared to withdraw as he had at the conclusion of a similar discussion two months earlier. But to his surprise, Holmes did turn around and closed the gap on him before he could reach the door. His eyes lowered, he held out his hand.

"Nonetheless….let me thank you, doctor."

Watson looked at him, astonished. "Whatever for?"

"For coming here", Holmes replied flatly, eyes still lowered but with a vexed, tiny smile about his lips.

"My dear fellow!" His hand twitched slightly when Watson took and pressed it, deeply moved. "It was nothing at all."

oooOOOooo

I went straight to bed after Mycroft had left. It was not my usual time, but I felt like lying down, and have always found it best to relent to such impulses. I had been sharing a room the size of a broom closet with little Fanny at her mother's place, and now was glad about the privacy my new resort afforded me.

It was a bright room on the first floor, furnished with a canopy bed, primrose silk curtains, and a white _empire_ suite by the window. But the peace was not destined for perpetuity.

"Aunt Cathy? Are ya cryin'?"

"What – naw! 'course not", I grumbled, quickly palming my face to verify whether I was speaking the truth. "Hop right in, if you must."

There was some crawling motion beneath my duvet as though caused by some small animal; then Fanny was lying next to me, her copper hair fanning out on the pillows. "Blimey, that was an evil-lookin' geezer, that was. What did 'e want from you?"

"The one as walked outta 'ere jus' now?"

"Aye. 'e gave me the creeps, re'lly."

"You weren't supposed ter see 'im", I sighed.

"I jus' happened to. I wonder where I seen 'is mug afore."

"You did?" I muffled, shading my face against the autumnal sunlight that seeped through the windows, which caused Fanny to hop out of bed again and close the curtains. I used the opportunity to wipe my eyes in secret, before I went on: "It's no surprise you should 'ave set eyes on him. D'ye remember those loafers that used to nark on us at the old plaice? Those were 'is men."

"But who is he?" She crept back into the bed, snuggling up against me comfortingly.

"Mr. 'olmes' brother. An' now stop askin' questions, nosey."

"I ain't. I jus' wanna help you, Auntie. I don't wanna see ya so sad an' moping about."

I sat up, looked at her, sighed and shook my head. "Listen, there's nothing you could do to help. And I'm certainly not going to tell you what the visit was about, 'cause it don't concern you, 'cause it ain't meant for yer ears."

Fanny's immediate obedience and her cast down eyes might have looked like compliance to the general beholder, but I knew her enough to detect the trace of guilt on her juvenile features. "Fanny Morris! Look at me now. You didn't spy, didcha?"

"Jus'…a wee li'lle bit, Aunt Cathy", the girl admitted ruefully, twisting her fingers with every indication of discomfort.

"Oh, for shame!" I dug my hands in my hair, reasonably desperate. "'ow much did ya hear then? Do not lie to me!"

"I, I, I", Fanny stuttered, agitated and intimidated by my vehemence. "I ain't sure I got it right, but I think…I un'erstood…'e wanted ya to tell the papers 'ow Mr. 'olmes treated ya so bad, an' help ya in return…wiv the divorce an' the baby…"

"Cor! When 'ave ya become so dreadfully perceptive? When didcha start harkening at keyholes?" I scolded her, half astonished, half appalled. She quickly put her little hand on mine.

"Don't get worked up, please Aunt Cathy….I'm not gonna tell anyone, neither. It jus' sort of happened."

"Just – happened." I nodded weakly. "Good. Jus' don't let your mum an' uncle Jo 'ear any of this, un'erstand?"

"Sure, Auntie. On'y…." Fanny's face had a peculiar, worried expression when she turned it up at me. She looked older all of a sudden, less like a child and more like the woman in being she was. "Whatcha gonna do about it, eh? Ye're not gonna treat Mr. 'olmes this way. Are ya? I'd be rather mean."

"Well, perhaps not so mean as the way 'e's been treating me", I returned, a little more hot-headed than I had intended, but regretted it the moment I saw how much it disturbed her. Fanny had known Holmes to be a capricious, difficult person, but all the same, she had taken to him…had insisted he was good, good and kind and likable – but Lord, that was the way children perceived the world!

"Right. Now dearie, don't ya have a lot to do to get yer things packed? An' don't forget to do yer rows, ye're gonna finish that scarf before we leave school, hear me?"

"But Auntie!" Imperturbable, she reached for my arm with her second hand, fastening me down to where I was sitting cross-legged. "Ye're still in love wiv Mr. 'olmes. Ain't ya?"

"Well…I am….that's not the question, Fanny."

"Oh, but I know you are! 'e's not like my dad, 'e's not been maltreating you or somethin'. Ya can't do this to him!"

"No, I suppose he hain't been maltreating me. However…."

"You can't! You can't!" She had started to chant, rocking back and forth with the annoying insistence of very young children that try to carry their point. I had quite enough of her.

"That will do! You'll leave my room immediately. And don't dare to come back and disturb me again in this fashion!"

She bristled and resisted, repeating "You can't! You can't!" in the most strident tones, so that I virtually had to drag her out by her sleeves. When out of doors, she still continued to blare out her complaint, but I laid down again and pretended to myself I could not hear her.

After all, what would justify Fanny's interference, how could she even judge my situation? I had a child; I had to think about my child and its future, its health and happiness. Clearly, such considerations were far over my young niece's head. I could not let myself be influenced by someone who was but a child herself!

And yet….I had to acknowledge part of what she had claimed was the truth. I yearned for Mr. Holmes; I yearned for him now, yesterday and tomorrow, daytime and nighttime. It was no use denying it; his voice and image were too painfully present in my dreams and conscious thought. But he was nothing but a child, either!

Exasperated, I revolved and reclined on my back, arm thrown across my face to drown out the outward world from my perception. What was I to do? Who, for Lord's mercy, would tell me what I should do?

oooOOOooo

3rd November 1887

Kitty was crossing the room, and as she did so, she appeared to float. There was something positively angelic in her appearance. Had her face been so pale in actuality? Had her hair really gleamed in this tint?

No, no surely not. Baron Gruner had called her names, had characterized her as a witch, a she-devil, a hell cat. And surely he had been justified. There was nothing angelic in this woman, she was so much of this world that she was selling him to his own brother, a man he had warned her against. Of this, there could not be any doubt.

Exhausted by endless thought and troublesome memories, Sherlock Holmes got up from his chill bed. He knew the time was approaching when the succubus of his imagination would be leaving for Bristol, taking his only child, his only hope of survival to distant shores. At present she was still in London, so there was still time to try and stop her.

But this he could not bring himself to do. It simply was irreconcilable with his pride. She wanted to go, so let her go! He would not interfere. Legs stiff with cold and loneliness, Holmes slowly and silently mounted the stairs to the room he had entered and re-exited so frequently those past six weeks, hating himself each time for his weakness. Kitty was still present here, there were all those things she had used and neglected to take with her, things he had given her.

And there she was in the air, in the foot prints on the carpet and the bed, the bed Mrs. Hudson had not been allowed to change since her departure. And there she was in the crumpled, dry leaves of pansies on the bottom of a bowl from whence the water had long evaporated. And there she was in the remainders of a mantle clock, broken beyond hope of repair, calling to his mind that his time with Kitty Winter had irrevocably run out.

**So, another chapter with yet again no progress made, and sorry again for the time of waiting. Abdominal influenza is such an ordeal, besides, I had a bit of a writer's block. But here we are with a chapter that leaves some room for brooding and pondering. **

**What is Kitty up to? Her oscillation can mean only one thing, she at least considers accepting Mycroft's offer. In Holmes' case, let us hope he'll come around and mind Watson's words. It's high time he took some action, for his own good!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	68. Chapter 68

Chapter sixty-eight: Last minute

7th November 1887

„_If a pair would love increase/ to seperate them's ample." Goethe's Faust_

It was a cold and inhospitable day on which we left for Brighton, Jonathan, I, and all. The early train had brought us as far as Bath, where we had a short snack while waiting for the hired cabs to arrive. The children were fatigued and quarrulous; and Annie was making us nervous with frequent indications as to the steamer's departure time.

The _Conqueror_ was to leave the Bristol pier for Kinsale at noon, and we still had a couple of hour's drive ahead of us. Jonathan had suggested taking the train from Bath and sending the luggage ahead by cab, but the connection afforded too little time for eventualities, and when at last the two hansoms arrived, we were all rather glad to be seated inside and leave it to the cabmen whether we would be on time or not.

I was unfortunate enough to be situated in one with Annie's boys, and was busy hushing them so that little Nicholas, who was sleeping in my arms, would not awake. But surprisingly, he kept on snoozing despite the bumpy road and the sharp wind beating rain against the smallish window panes.

It was indeed one hour to twelve when we reached Bristol, and it took us another twenty minutes to go through the town center and arrive at the harbor. Though the day was dreary and the ships could only be seen as blurred white flecks from the hansom, the memory of a different day was brought to my mind: Clear sky, white sails, the small gig going smoothly across calm waves and the wind catching on to my ribbons…But this chapter in my life was over now and done with. Ultimately.

Disembarking with the baby, I called over to where Jo and Annie got out of their cab, looking quite relieved to feel the ground beneath their feet once again. Fanny and Susan were following tamely.

"Sharp, ain't it?" I exclaimed, waving my arm while the other was gathering the baby to my bosom. "We're on time, though!"

"Yeah, but on'y jus'!" Annie hectically looked around on the busy, peopled pier, crammed with newspaper stalls and baggage trolleys and more cabs and more people arriving.

"Getta move on, girls", Jonathan reproved us, fastening the straps on Ginger Jack's basket. The tom cat loudly mewled his protest. "They'll want ter check our papers, first thing we're at the gangway. It might taike some time yet. Lucky we decided not ter go by train!"

Bit by bit, we got our bunch of children together and engaged two luggage porters to stack our trunks and boxes on the trolleys, to follow us as we proceeded through the crowd. The mass of strangers and the time pressure made Annie more nervous than ever; she constantly was looking out for her offsprings and simultaneously tried to make sure no thief's fingers could reach her portemonnaie. It was only short of a miracle we finally succeeded in reaching the _Conqueror_, a majestic vessel that was blowing smoke into the air from four separate funnels.

"Finally!" Jo was laughing with relief when we queued by the stern looking officers that checked each traveller's boarding card before allowing them to ascend the gangway.

"I ain't no less glad", I teased, giving him my elbow. "me 'and's an' arms are getting' darned stiff from holdin' the li'le feller. You wouldn't mind taking him fer a while?"

He screwed up his eyes. "Wotcher think? I'm bearin' yer cat awready. Well let's exchange them, before ya drops him….it ain't fer a feller to carry neither a cat nor a babe, though…"

But the moment was ill chosen for an exchange of burdens, for we were interrupted by the officer. "Tickets, please. And I will have to look at your passports."

Jo raised his eyebrows, while Annie started to lament. "Those of the kids, too?"

"Those of the kids, too."

"Time is comin' close fer departure", my sister vociferated, but the man reassured her:

"We do not intend to leave without you, madam. Just need to go through the formalities correctly."

"I been at sea these twelve years from port ter port an' ne'er had to prove me identity", Jonathan complained, nonetheless producing our boarding cards from his wallet; while Annie was fussing madly with the IDs of her many children.

I was silently praying she would be having all of them, though I was almost certain of the opposite. To my agreeable surprise, however, one after the other was allowed to pass, and after them Annie, then Jonathan. Instinctively, I wanted to follow suit, but the grave officer held me back with a subtle motion of the hand.

"Your passport please, madam."

While I was still rummaging around in my pocket, he asked: ""You wouldn't be Mrs. Catherine Holmes, neé Winter, by any chance?"

"Why, yes!" Astonished, I stopped to scrutinize the man. "You know me?"

"I thought it not unlikely it'd be you, given the surname of the gentleman in your company, and the personal description we have been given. I am sorry, but you are not allowed to proceed."

I wondered for a second whether I had not heard him wrong. "Excuse me…what - ?"

"I'm sorry", the man repeated in his dry, correct tone. "We cannot let you proceed beyond this point."

"But that's ridiculous!" Now it was I who started to panic. "My whole family is aboard this ship, and they will cast off in the quarter of an hour…."

"Mrs. Holmes…please, stop that!" The officer was getting a little more engaged in tone as I tried to push past him desperately with little Nicholas still on my arm.

"I do 'ave a valid passport…an' me bruvver showed ya me boarding card…!"

I was so confused I hardly knew what to do. To think the _Conqueror_ would leave, leave without me and the baby! What was I to do?

"Mrs. Holmes, please calm yourself. We're just exerting our orders. We're not doing this out of ill will toward you."

"Who could be giving orders o' that kind?" I stammered, though the answer already was more than clear to me. The man was looking down to the tips of his boots by now.

"Your husband, madam, has given notice that you were to be detained if you attempted to board the ship. He has not given you permission to leave the country."

I could scarce believe it. Tears were rapidly filling my eyes, and I shivered in helpless fury. "The villain! The fiend! I should 'ave killed him when I had the chance!"

"Perhaps, my dear", a slightly nasal voice suddenly said, close to where I was standing, "a delayed opportunity will have to do for you. I'm here at your convenience, _prêt à meurtre _in front of a thousand people, if you so wish."

I spun round to see Sherlock Holmes next to me, clad in his deerstalker hat and Inverness cape against the rain still drizzling down, and wearing an expression that was serious enough, despite his cynical words. The suddenness of the meeting after so many weeks had an impact on me, an impact so harsh that indeed I would have dropped the baby, had he not reached out instinctively to stabilize my arm.

"Careful, now", he said quietly, both reproach and concern swinging in his vocal chords. But I had recovered already.

"How could you….!" Remembering the presence of the officials, who of course kept a straight face, I stepped to the side, and he followed without further invitation.

"How could you do this to me?" I hissed angrily, trying not to look into his eyes directly and holding on to little Nicholas as if to dear life. "Why won't you let me go! Have you not contributed to my misery enough already? Have you not chased me from London? Do you wish to stalk me? Do you wish to maike me life a living hell?"

"Kitty, I beg you…there really is no need to make a scene. I _will_ let you board that ship and leave the country, with the safe assurance that you will never see my face again….but I mean to talk to you beforehand."

"Talk?" I was gasping for breath in my rage. "Talk like las' time, eh? Talk about what?"

"Not like last time. Though again, I wish to ask something of you."

"_You_ asking something of me?" His brazenness shattered me. "What?"

"To stay here", he returned quite simply. "To return to me."

"Wha - ?!" I felt my eyes were close to popping out of my head. This was incredible. Holmes had to be the least self-reflective, most self-assured creature on God's earth!

"I can believe the idea is difficult for you to grasp", Holmes continued placidly, "but the proposition is made and will not be withdrawn until you decide to go aboard that ship of your own free will. Pray use the remaining minutes and think about it well."

"I – but – " I caught myself staring into those blasted starry eyes, deep and dark and bottomless. What was going on beneath the surface this moment? I could hazard no guess. _Recover! Where's your pride!_

"So that is your proposal?" I had acquired an attitude almost royal in the completeness of its depreciation. "And why, Mr. Holmes, would you even suppose I would agree to it after everything that has been – why would you think I'd be willing to forget about it?"

"Because you didn't sell me to my brother when you had the chance."

My mouth gaped. "'ow d'ye know?"

"I know everything about Mycroft. His little schemes are too trivial not to be anticipated. I trust if you had accepted his terms, he would have acted against me by now. That has not happened."

I was afflicted with wordlessness for a moment. Why indeed had I not done it? Out of decency, or because….? No, no. No more thoughts.

"I very much regret Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid you're on the wrong track about me, plus, I don't think I shall have to consider your proposal all that long. Why should I, a faithful and well-meaning wife, return to the man who spurned me and all but beat me on the grounds of his shabby, unmotivated jealousy?"

He did not flinch, or react with any facial change. "You asked me that question, albeit a rather more polite paraphrase thereof, on the day when we resolved upon our betrothal. I shall give you the same answer as then: I can give no reason why you should go on living with me."

I looked at him, expecting more, but he was silent. Laughing softly, I shook my head. "It won't do, Sherlock. I'm sorry, but it just ain't enough."

And I turned to go away. The surprise of my lifetime was when I felt his hand on my arm, withholding me gently. "Please Kitty – don't do this."

"And why not?" I ranted, turning back at him with more tears in my eyes. "What would it avail anyone if I decided to return to you? Who would be the gainer? I should be miserable, as I was miserable before, and you should be – "

"I need you", Sherlock Holmes abruptly said with an overwhelming lack of sarcasm in his voice. "I can't do without you."

My shock was even more pronounced than before. With widened eyes, I gazed at him. He gave the notorious little twitch of his lips that indicated a smile. "I have been thinking about it, these past weeks. I used to think your presence constituted a distraction – an obstacle to clear thought and intellectual progress. The opposite is the case.

I have been forced to realize that the distraction is by far larger when I lack your company, for my thoughts dwell on you in a fashion most irritating. Your absence has been detrimental to my work Kitty – I felt I could get nothing done, I felt helpless, lethargic, paralyzed. Every artist requires his muse, and I require you. I need your breath to plough the air of my study, your nearness to cleanse my thoughts of the gloom and sadness that haunt them. I cannot dispense with you."

I held my breath, withdrawing a little. "Mr. Holmes – do you mean – do you mean to say – that you love me?"

His gaze was so steady and earnest that I almost did not dare to return it.

"I need you to live with me. That is what I mean."

"Oh my….Sherlock…" I bit back the tears, standing enthralled and blinking violently as his eyes gently closed and he bent forward to meet my lips. But we were very unceremoniously interrupted by the sizzling steam that escaped from the large funnels of the ocean steamship.

"Cor! The baby!" Elbowing people left and right, I made my way back to the gangway, Holmes following in my wake.

"Let her pass. She's just bringing the infant aboard", I heard him tell the officers as I stumbled up the gangway to the deck where Annie was already waiting, crying hysterically for her little one.

"Yer boy – take 'im – take 'im – "

"You whore! How could ya gimme such a shock 'bout me li'le 'un?"

"Auntie", Fanny piped up, more perceptive than the rest as usual. "Ye're not a-comin' wiv us, are ya?"

"No, darling", I replied, wrapping both my arms around her and kissing her warmly. "I'm going back to London. Farewell!"

Annie frowned, and Jo exclaimed above the sizzling steam: "You sure about that, Kitty?"

But I only smiled, picking up the box wherein Ginger Jack was trapped, and waved at them through the smog as I walked back down the gangway to the pier, where my husband was waiting for me.

**Sweet reunion….Kitty has got her Mr.'olmes back, after all!**

**I'm awfully sorry if I let you think I'd abandoned the story. This is not the case, only weekly updates are becoming something of an illusion. My affliction has turned out to be more serious than at first it seemed, and it's taking up a lot of time as well as making life pretty difficult. Therefore, I cannot tell when the next chapter will appear.**

**Anyhow, I wish to dedicate this one to my mother and my boyfriend – faithful supporters and twin suns of my life.**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	69. Chapter 69

Chapter sixty-nine: Memory Lane

13th November 1887

"_The thread of thought has broken off/ to me all learning's long been nauseous: / In depths of sensuality/ let us our glowing passions still!" Goethe's Faust_

Ginger Jack treaded the sofa cushions with the utmost care as he tried to determine the ideal spot for a cat to settle down and make itself at home. Relishing the rare opportunity to nestle into his snug environs without fear of being shooed out of the room at a second's notice, he sat down on his hind legs and started his cat lick. Paws first, then some delicate strokes through the whitening whiskers. While the sounds emerging from the neighbouring room might have been disturbing to human ears, he largely ignored them. After all, Ginger Jack was a tomcat of the world, and took as little interest in his mistress' affairs as vice versa.

Indifferently he rubbed his face and ears as the sounds next doors grew louder, more urgent, and eventually died away. There. Perhaps they were overdoing it a little bit. Not that Ginger Jack minded, though it was just a trifle annoying, and out of the coupling season, too….! Twinkle-toed, Ginger Jack hopped off the sofa and wiggled through the aperture between door and frame.

"Oh….! Sweet Jesus…" Scrambling wildly, my legs disentangled with the sheet it had got caught up in, and I could sit up in the bed, my breath irregular, my hair a disheveled mess. "Please, gimme a break! I'm fagged out."

"As you will." He absent-mindedly reached out for a cigarette from the bedside table, not without coyly having covered my nakedness first.

"Please, don't!" I pleaded, and with a tolerably peaceable sigh, he put both cigarette and match down again.

"Oh, look who's there! Ginger Jack!" I let my arm dangle down the bedside and stroked the furry head that was presented to me with great eagerness.

"The cat in here! No, that's too much!" Sherlock complained. "If only I weren't such a content, happy man at this minute, I'd get up to throw him out!"

My hand abandoned Jack, who curled up placidly on our clothes on the floor, to return to his face and lightly trace his jawline with the fingertips. "Are ya? Are ya happy and content?"

"At least I think I am, which is really one and the same thing." He turned around to face me directly, and removed my hand from his cheek to take it into his. "Kitty dear…why would you ask such a thing? Has the week in between now and your envisaged emigration not taught you how much you improve my mood, my spirits?"

"I don't know…" Hypnotized and intimidated at the same time, I gazed into his lustrous eyes, almost charcoal black in the twilight of his room. "Perhaps it is jus' difficult for me to picture you as a _happy_ _man_. It is certainly no characteristic that would come to my mind when I'm thinking of you."

"Why not, pray? Can't you see me as passably happy, passably unhappy at times, like every man?"

"Now that you're saying it, it seems foolish ter picture ya otherwise." I watched our hands twining and intertwining on the counterpane. "It's jus' that in most respects, you seem to be unlike other men I've known. I've seen you enjoy yer profession to a great extent – but is that bliss? For me, it's more about ambition and curiosity and a thirst for recognition. But what's really in your heart, Sherlock?"

I regarded him insistently, but with a huff he turned up his eyes at the ceiling. "That's a fine question to ask a man who, against his nature, declared his adherence to you only some days earlier!"

"I didn't mean myself!" I reassured him, moving my fingers through his soft, dark hair. "I meant before my time…was there ever a person in yer life that – mattered to you, that made ya feel good?"

There was a minute of silence before he groaned. "You're not bound to relent, are you?"

"I'm afraid no."

"Fine." He sat up and again reached over to the bedside table. "You will, I'm sure, allow me a cigarette, taking into account that I allowed you the cat. Cat hairs and cigarette smoke presumably constitute an equal measure of inconvenience."

I was daring enough to say: "An' yet, I observe you hain't sneezed once since he came in 'ere.", however he only snapped: "I beg your pardon? Achoo!" before he lit the match and held it to the end of his cigarette, inhaling deeply.

I uttered no objection to the dense smoke, nor a remonstrance at the carelessly tossed away match, just laid there and waited for him to speak. And speak he did, at least after having mutely smoked for some minutes.

"You asked me if there was a person in my life, a person that had a place in my heart and made me feel good", he reiterated my words. "I think there can only be one person to fit that description – that would be my grandmother."

"Marie-Claude Vernet!" I thoughtlessly said, and he gave me sharp look.

"Precisely so. But how do you know…?"

"Watson mentioned her name to me once", I hurriedly replied, mindful of my own interests. It would only hurt his pride, his feelings, to realize how much I actually knew about his past. A less touchy man probably would not mind, but I knew him, I knew he would mind very much indeed.

Therefore, I kept my mouth well shut as he proceeded: "Yes, that was her name. She and I returned to her family in Paris after my mother's death. Perhaps Watson told you that, too?"

"No, you did. You mentioned it to me on our boat trip in Brighton."

"Quite right. I forgot…but as I said, we turned our back on England to stay with her relatives. The Vernet family is huge – an extensive clan full of artists and faddy, freakish people. This had for an advantage that my own curious person attracted less attention than it probably would have in a more outbalanced environment, which was very much to my interest. I did not exactly make friends among the children of the family, but they accepted me…and I think I was happy. Yes, I think I was very happy in Paris. Perhaps for the first time in my life."

"When you 'ad no friends?" I furrowed my brow. "I couldn't contemplate an existence wivout friends. Surely ya must feel the same way….even you have a need to form relationships wiv other people. With Watson, for example, and wiv me…"

"If such a need exists within my being, I did not feel it very much at the time." His eyebrows twitched; a familiar substitute for a shrug of the shoulder. "When I desired human company, there always was my grandmother. She was what you might call a friend – a friend of the bosom", he repeated with some signs of astonishment, as though he had discovered this fact just now. "She showed me life from a perspective from which I had not hitherto seen it. You cannot imagine the difference between my childhood everyday routine and…Paris…"

"What was different?" I lovingly caressed his shoulder, his chest beneath the duvet.

"The people, I expect. The people and life – life everywhere you look. I was pitchforked from the wet, misty seclusion of a middle-seized Lancashire village into a colourful macrocosm of incredible dimensions: two millions of metropolitan citizens, not to mention the vast abundance of visitors from all over the world. My special capabilities, I daresay – the gift of close observation and logical inference – stemmed from hereditary sources and were alert enough beforehand, but here they were challenged; they were furnished with a great range of the most diverse opportunities.

I remember how I amazed grand-mère, walking down the Rue Rivoli next to her, and pointing out to her from the crowd people that were bound to ask her for change, directions or general information. Yes, I trust my career aspiration originates in that span of my existence. In "Le Monde", I followed up the work of my present-time colleague Bertillon, I kept track of investigations that unraveled the mystery of the Opera Garnier, I was engrossed in the capture of the legendary rapscallion Arsène Lupin."

I smiled amorously, and, no doubt, a little foolishly. "You must 'ave 'ad quite the time of it."

"I did. At home, my childhood days had followed a strict regiment: Lessons in science and the classic languages, boxing, horse riding and fencing later in the day. In the Vernet house in Montmartre, however, I was free as a bird. Naturally, I was obliged to participate in the lessons the other children took, but nobody greatly minded whither I roamed as soon as those had been concluded, and I enjoyed the freedom.

My wanderings often took me to the lowliest and vilest quarters of the city, but my family's connections also opened the floodgates of the most exalted ranks of society to me. I came to learn a lot about people of different ilk, I learned to assess them, to know their hidden fears, passions and ambitions at first glance, and I learned to pay attention to details: How a secretive look may identify a pair of clandestine lovers, how a carelessly laced boot betrays licentious wonts; how the faint whiff of eau de vie speaks of a shattered nerve system.

In addition, I was taken to attend cultural events a lot, which opened further gates to me: Music, or the theatre, were tastes that had been cultivated very sparsely in my parental home, but the acquaintance with them afforded me considerable advantages vis-à-vis my future profession, apart from the pleasure I derived from them."

My index very slowly stroked down the back of his nose as I enquired lightly: "So – your parents weren't so much into the arts, were they?"

My displayed nonchalance notwithstanding, Sherlock's progenitors were the part of the narrative I was keenest on hearing about. However, I regretted the question as his brow clouded instantly, and he uttered a deep sigh.

"My father – no, you wouldn't understand. Dearest, let that be enough for today. Besides, _il me faut _getting up. Watson will be here at about eleven…we are still hot on the scent of this alleged vampire in Sussex. We expect our client to provide us with fresh data, and perhaps we shall be obliged to travel down, or perhaps not, as the case may be."

Slowly and copiously he rose, and I closed my eyes, mindful of his instruction not to look at him in a state of nakedness. He dressed himself first, then handed me his dressing gown with his gaze averted.

"Thank ya." I fastened the belt around my waist, collected Ginger Jack from the floor and fondled him.

"Out of here with the beast!" Sherlock snarled, but from experience I knew he was not seriously taking offence. "And repair to your room without delay, you cannot be found dressed like this when Watson arrives."

"O' course." I got to the tips of my toes and pecked his lips, and everything around us seemed to perish for a second: The cat, the crumpled bed, the disorderly clothes on the floor.

"I'll see you later then."

If it were not Sherlock Holmes I am describing, I would be tempted to call his expression tender as he replied: "Not too late, I hope."

With an inward cry of jubilation, I withdrew from his bedroom and seek out my own chamber to get ready for the day. As I did so, I reviewed everything Sherlock had told me today, and also what he had neglected to tell.

All had changed so much for the better during the past week in comparison to our earlier dealings with one another – but still, I sensed, he was not entirely open toward me. He was kind, and caring, and considerate…he sometimes even called me pet names, such as _mon trésor, mon joujou, _or, if he was feeling really adventurous, _mon chocolat chaud_. In English, he did not appear to know any.

oooOOOooo

I was ready earlier than expected, and had time to slip in to Sherlock once more before Watson's arrival. He was idling about in his easy chair, with his hands flexing a riding crop.

"That thing!" In my surprise, I pointed at the utensil I had so much objected to in the past. Sherlock's answering smile was irresistibly malicious.

"You thought that long broken and buried? I purchased a new one. In some regions of the English countryside, horseback remains the only decent means of transportation, and it may be Sussex is one of them."

"Well, but you'll lemme know if ye're goin'!"

"Shoo shoo, woman! Get going, and don't vex me with silly requests! Here comes Watson."

He had pounced toward the window, and, hiding his lean frame behind my newly-sown curtains, peeped into the road.

"Very well. I am myself engaged to meet Mary in Queen Anne Street. We're bound to attend a political women's gathering. That is, if you don't mind?" I mocked him, but he negligently fawned his hand without averting his eyes from the road.

"You may do what you like, granted it doesn't result in your returning with your hair cut short, wearing trousers, and a figure like a boy."

"Like a…!" Bubbling with laughter, I glanced down at my stomach that was not any more so inconsiderable, now that I had entered the third month of my pregnancy. "You must be joking, surely."

"Surely not, my sense of humour is shockingly regressive. Now begone!"

He casually strolled back to the seat where he had left the riding crop, and to my utter amazement and with even greater casualty used it to put a little smack in place right on my behind, which eventually shooed me from the apartment with a small shriek.

**Dear readers, **

**I'm so glad I could finally install another chapter. Hopefully you'll approve of the "new relationship"! BTW, a warning: The rest of the tale will mainly concern Sherlock's psyche, so if you're not in for it, there you are, but if you think it's getting dull all over, let me know! It should help me evolve a better story. **

**Love, Mrs.F**


	70. Chapter 70

Chapter seventy: Mnemosyne

13th November 1887

"_Why, each impulse to live has been repressed/in you by some vague, unexplained smart…." Goethe's Faust_

As I had almost expected, the political debate turned out a complete rave and undisciplined brawl. Mary and I left early, dissatisfied with the outcome of the afternoon.

"I should have made it a baking day", Mary sulked as we were on our way back into the open. "Really I should have. What a regrettable waste of time! By now, our men, if so inclined, might be on their way to Sussex. And that without my refilling John's cookie jar! The poor darling will starve, I know he will. At the speed at which Mr. Holmes is always trying to solve the mystery!"

"Well, he'll manage", I replied, snatching my skirts and avoiding the brooms of two municipal road sweepers. "They's nothing loike some days o' absence from 'omer fer some bods. Makes 'em summat more grateful an' peaceable on their return."

"Yes, _your _husband has something to return to", Mary returned with unwonted gloominess and a sideways glance at my belly.

"Oh…" The topic was incredibly painful to me, but Mary got hold of herself within the second and continued a little more cheerfully: "You'll need a cod for the baby, get it soon. You're not supposed to carry heavy loads later on. And some years from now, the little one will need a room of his or her own; have you thought about that?"

"Yes…yes…I suppose", I grudgingly conceded. "But there's still time…we can go hunting fer a new 'ome in a year's time, an' that'll be soon enough still. We e'en managed ter accommodate two children at one time, so there should be ample space fer 'un at our plaice."

But that was not the most honest of answers. Truth was, I simply feared broaching that subject with Sherlock. A young child, in my opinion, should not be reared in the bleak, foggy surroundings of Baker Street, but in the sunny countryside. That was the way I had been brought up, and the same applied to Sherlock. But would he even want to consider going away?

Deep down inside, Sherlock Holmes was a creature of habit. Would he not miss the comfortable, untidy rooms of his bachelor days, and the service provided by Mrs. Hudson? Would he not need, for professional reasons, to keep central to the dealings of urban criminality? Would he not need to be easily available for his informants, his men at the Yard?

But even if I neglected all those difficulties, I could not imagine Sherlock would be only faintly interested in a life out of town. Even if he had not told me – only today! – of his love for the metropolitan lifestyle, I would not have been able to persuade myself he were not a convinced city dweller. All I could possibly succeed in was provoking a fresh quarrel and that was the least thing I wanted.

We had now reached the spot where Mary and I usually parted to get to our respective homes, but out of sheer pig-headedness and because she had got into a bit of a mood, Mary interested herself in the assortment behind the _Gross&Hankey's_ window pane.

I let her prevail though I was hungry and would fain have urged a quick parting, but I sensed Mary was resolved to let me suffer a little in exchange for my unmerited familial bliss. Her gaze wandered idly over the exhibited pieces of jewelry, and so I joined her. In fact, we were forming a little crowd in front of the shop, a middle-aged man evidently was looking for a Christmas gift to present his wife with (recent connubial quarrel, as was betrayed by his grimy hat), and a young woman stood motionlessly regarding the jewels which amazed a little since she appeared to be dressed in full mourning.

But my, the wonderful things they had! Delicately wrought metals encased diamonds and gems that fluoresced in every colour of the spectrum. A set of garnet eardrops, of an almost sumptuous red, especially appealed to me, but Mary instantly pointed the opposite way to indicate a bracelet generously beset with sapphires.

"That one is adorable, don't you think? John's going to get me that, in appreciation of my efforts at the Street Girl's mission", she declared a little defensively.

"It's beautiful", I warily said. "It'll match tha' blue poplin o' yers very well."

"My thoughts exactly." Mary finally broke away from the jeweller's pane and craned her neck to check the time from the large dial above the shop entrance. "Good gracious, is it that time already! Kitty, I shall have to fly. See you tomorrow at school!"

"Er…right…" I mumbled, and perceived that the hands of the dial had in fact stopped, but she had already hustled away. Pensively, I turned around to gaze at the window again. The middle-aged man had departed simultaneously with us, but the young woman revolved the minute I was alone, and hailed me.

"Kitty! What brings you here?"

"Natasha!" In my bewilderment, I blinked. Was it possible that I had mistaken one of my few remaining friends, standing right next to me, for a complete stranger? That had to mean I was getting old, surely.

Now that I scrutinized her more closely, I could see that what had evoked the impression of mourning were her black astrakhan coat, her sleek black hair worn in a French bun, and her general solemn bearings. "Dear me, dontcha look well! Why didcha not approach me at once, I di'n't see you!"

"I did not wish to…interrupt", Natasha replied with her customary polite tone, pathetically present even with her most intimate associates, and delicately folded her gloved hands over the handles of her bag.

"What nonsense, honey. You knew perfectly well you weren't interrupting at all, but you were jus' too shy ter step forward an' say: Well, here I am, a friend o' Kitty's! How d'ye do?"

Natasha blushed ever so slightly and lowered her eyes. "You know I'm only just getting used to going out again and meeting people. This is the first day I am doing my own shopping."

"An' very good fer ya, too!" I hurried to affirm. "actually, dear…I wondered if I might not ask ya over ter dine at my plaice some o' these days. So why not today? My hubby is unlikely ter be in, so we shall be quite undisturbed. Don't you want ter see our home?" I pressed her, until she broke into a little sigh, and nodded.

"Thank you, Kitty. I would love to."

oooOOOooo

I had been mistaken. Sherlock _was_ home. I could even hear him and Mrs. Hudson back somewhere in the house as we entered, raising hell over some trifle. Natasha looked at me with wide, dark doe eyes, but I gave her a reassuring smirk and she followed me up the stairs. It was only in our sitting room that she very hesitatingly slipped off her fur coat.

"You have it nice here."

"Oh, it's a gruesome mess in 'ere today, actually", I remarked truthfully, and brushed a few of Sherlock's effects aside to have Natasha sit down on the couch. "The room needs some replenishing – but life has been too turbulent recently ter see to such things. Flowers are hard to come by an' horrendously expensive in winter, too…"

I busied myself with the lightning of the fireplace while Natasha daintily rid herself of her scarf, lacy mitten and veiled pill box hat. "I still think it's awfully nice. The place has such a…_loved _feeling to it, you know…"

I knew exactly what she meant. For a person like Natasha, so delicate and impractical she had turned the lovely flat I had procured into a, if not filthy, then at least dismayingly untidy den within weeks, our little bit of disorder was not so striking as to influence her comfort. On the contrary, as I straightened myself, easing the slight crick in my back with my hand, I saw her wistful eye wander over the personal belongings of the apartment's inhabitant, artifacts that told of a life not spent in single isolation, but shared between two people that had become dear to each other.

Involuntarily, I asked:" You still goin' out wiv Dr. Levhin?"

Natasha flinched as though I had woken her from a profound reverie. "Oh yes, yes, certainly. We see each other twice a week, and sometimes more often", she replied with a pale smile.

"Good. That's good."

I did not penetrate her with further questions about the advance of her relationship, for reasons of delicacy on the one hand and for Sherlock's ascending steps on the stairs on the other. Natasha tensed visibly on her seat, but she nonetheless rose gracefully when my husband entered the room, with an air of surprise to find me in company.

"Natasha dear, this is my husband, Mr. Sherlock Holmes", I spoke rapidly into the looming silence. "Sherlock, this is my dear friend, Miss Natasha Orlansky. I have told you about her."

No need to go into the details of our mutual painful memories.

"Of course", Sherlock said with his usual easy geniality, reaching out for Natasha's thin, white hand. I was grateful for his understanding.

Actually, I had never exactly mentioned Natasha to him, but no doubt his remarkable capacity for the recollection of faces had reminded him of her photograph in Baron Gruner's vulgar catalogue of souls he had ruined, and made the connection.

"It is very nice to make your acquaintance sir", Natasha answered shyly, but courteously. "Kitty has been talking about you so much."

"Natasha will join us fer supper tonight", I added, running him over swiftly. "Ye're not going to Sussex, I perceive?"

"Tomorrow, my dear, tomorrow. It's a most promising little matter. Will you now excuse me for a moment, ladies?"

And he withdrew to wash his hands while Mrs. Hudson served our meal, consisting of oxtail soup, quails and melon. Sherlock reappeared, astonishingly untroubled by the "intruder", and even joined us in our conversation.

My surprise augmented as I saw Sherlock talking to Natasha in suave, gentle tones, instead of sulking morosely over the bother of having a guest forced upon him. He seemed to know instinctively how to handle her, and Natasha's face lit up, she lost her fearful reserve and chit-chatted light-heartedly with my husband.

"Oh, you don't say! The Bacarole is also my favourite piece by Hoffmann. And you say it helped you arrest two criminals on the spot? I can scarce imagine how…"

I lost track of their interview, just sat entranced as the two prattled away as though they had known each other for years. It was unusual, to say the least, for Sherlock to make friends spontaneously, and Natasha's reluctance in opening herself to anyone might be considered almost clinical. However, they got on very well, it was almost too good to be true. I had often seen Sherlock exert a certain charm over women, and Natasha's admiring words no doubt flattered him, but such friendship – no, _intimacy_ - on the spur of the moment?

I still observed them mutely and deep in thought when Natasha suddenly addressed me: "Don't you think so too, Kitty?"

I started. "Yes – yes, absolutely. You know that I do."

Sherlock, who was now reaching for his after dinner cigarette from his case, gave me a look of mild intrigue. "But I understood you abhorred male singers to perform in alto or soprano voice!"

"Yes…of course I do. I jus' didn't catch yer meaning…"

"Oh, but it can be done so nicely", Natasha chimed in. "The other day, when I attended at the St. James Hall with Dr. Levhin…"

oooOOOooo

She departed at eleven o' clock. Sherlock had sent for a cab to bring her to her close-by home, and I saw her to the door after she had said her good-byes to him.

"oh Kitty, you never told me he was so amiable!" she still went on about him. "From how you described him, I had always pictured him as somewhat severe and not very talkative. But he's such a kind person, really! And so knowledgeable about modern opera! I'm just so glad you introduced us!"

"Yes, innit?" I mumbled randomly, giving the cabby a sign to open the door for Natasha, since it was too cold to stand outside in the road for any length of time.

"Take care on yer way home. G'night, Natasha…"

"Good night Kitty. And thanks again for the lovely evening!" She waved at me, a smile radiating all over her oval Madonna's face, and disappeared into the cab.

I watched the vehicle draw off slowly, and then returned inside, for it really was freezing cold. In the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson sat reading by the light of the gas lamp, her daily tasks long done. I wished her good night and stepped upstairs carefully, the aching back reminding me of my stomach's additional weight.

oooOOOooo

Sherlock was busy packing his things for the impending journey when I stepped into his chamber, but he stopped the moment he sensed my presence.

"Kitty", he said, and his voice was hoarse, "will you do something for me?"

"Anything, as I'm sure you know, love." I moved so as to stand behind him, reaching up to his shoulders and rubbing them in order to relax their tension.

"Then please, do not bring this girl here again."

Although I could not see his face, his teeth were audibly clenched as he spoke between them. I was greatly confused. "Why, what is the matter? You seemed to like her so!"

With a rather unkind shrug of the shoulder, he shook me off and returned to his predicament of cramming things into his suitcase. "Please just do me this favour, will you? It can hardly matter to you whether you see her here, or elsewhere."

Suddenly, a red-hot anger surged through my guts. What was the man's problem?

"So, here we go again!" I raised my voice, put my arms akimbo. "I'm so sick of yer attitude towards my pals. They ne'er please yer 'ighness, do they? I broke up wiv Lorenzo fer your sake, but by Jove, I won't let you spoil what friendships I 'ave left, no indeed I won't! In fact, I know of no other wife whose husband prohibits visits by her closest – "

"Kitty!" His head flew around, his pupils covered with a darkish, unfamiliar glaze. "I'm _asking _you!"

We stood like that for some seconds, he with his strange, pleading eyes, I with anger and confusion effervescing uncontrollably within my stomach.

"Fine!" I spat finally, and swept out of his room.

oooOOOooo

The next morning, he had left a card to the effect that he and Dr. Watson would be going down to Sussex.

**Jay, new installment! The rarer they get, the more I enjoy them. But please, do give me your impressions! What do you think is the matter with Holmes? And what about his and Kitty's situation, disregarding their quarrel? Are they bound to be happy?**

**Hope to hear from you!**

**Have a wonderful Christmas time and a Happy New Year!**


	71. Chapter 71

Chapter seventy-one: Riddle-Me-Ree

17th November 1887

„_I am not/ omniscient, but I know a lot." Goethe's Faust_

Sherlock returned by the end of the week, and we silently agreed not to raise the subject of Natasha's visit again. It was easy, given the intriguing development of his case, which furnished us with plentiful alternate topics for conversation, and it was only now and then that an wakward gap opened up in the flow of our relatively unstrained chit-chat.

Still, the question haunted me: What was it that had displeased my husband in the appearance, talk or demeanour of this curteous, amiable creature, whose very manners were so refined and unobtrusive as to make them compatible even to a man who could be upset by the merest trifle? For it actually had seemed her presence had heightened his spirits, had lured him out of his customary reserve.

Yet what it was that she had stirred up in the so far unchartered waters of Sherlock's emotional condition, I could not tell, though I had spent much time on the problem, repeating to myself what I remembered of their exchange time and time again.I was obsessed by the desire to unravel the mystery, to see what was behind this curious swing of mood, but I failed even as I returned to the source of my troubles.

„I wonder whether he'd enjoy Puccini", Natasha would say dreamily each time I gingerly focused the conversation on the issue of my man, delicately striking off her spoon on the rim of a not too clean Meißen saucer. „Raphael – Dr. Levhin – is going to take me to _Tosca_ at the Royal Albert in a fortnight from now, and I thought of suggesting you come and bring him along, so we could make a _partie carrée_. It would be so jolly. We might dine at _Rule's _afterwards…"

„Yeah…hum…I'll fink about it", I replied doubtfully. „I trust `e prefers Verdi, person'lly…."

But Natasha would hardly listen. She would go on about how well she liked Sherlock and about the things we might do all together, and then she'd drift off and tell me about the house in Edgeware Dr. Levhin was toying with the idea of buying, now the wedding had been appointed for next year's summer season.

„…and the loggia we will do in the meditearranean style, or do you consider that out of place? Anyway, I so mean to have that loggia, and it can quite easily be added to the southern side, really…."

And I just sat there and listened and smiled.

oooOOOooo

Dr. Watson carefully opened my medical record, to make some entries with his short, steady, well-tended hand. I waited patiently, sitting on the brim of my chair and watching him in silence. The folder had grown quite a bit during the weeks, just in proportion to my stomach, I thought, giggling nervously.

„Kitty?"

The doctor looked up with a kind smile. I pulled myself together. „It's nothing. Pray, are there any new developments visible to you? What results did the…somefink…amniocentesis yield?"

„Oh, there is no room for concern, my dear. As far as I can tell, everything is perfectly ordinary and _comme il faut_. If I were you, I would try not to think about it all that much."

„O' course", I muttered, reminding myself of Annie and how I was not the first woman in the world to give birth to a child. Though maybe the first with such a strange agenda behind, it crossed my mind. I pushed the thought aside. „No news is good news, I'll wager. I jus' like ter check `pon the li'le feller now an' then."

„Now and then." Watson smiled with mld irony, his raised eyebrow reminding me of the hours I had so far drawn upon him, namely each and every time Sherlock junior had performed a perceptible move inside my belly. „And how – „ he put the considerable folder to the side to speak to me more directly, „is the dear prospective father?"

„Oh…" I would have liked to demonstrate my ignorance with a depreciating shrug, but recalled my manners in time to turn it into an apologetic smile. „I dunno. Keepin' busy, I reckon."

Which was rather an understatement, considering how Sherlock had recovered from his adventure with the alleged Sussex bloodsucker by investigating a japanese problem solver's disappearance, injecting a dose of morphine, covering our floor with the contents of two dozend match boxes, injecting another dose of morphine and hunting down a parricidal bibliothecarian.

„Business as usual." John winked conspiratively, one of the rare moments in his practice when a hint of familiarity permeated his exterior of affirmed professionality. I gave him a relieved smile.

„We don't see too much of each other these days. Ya knows what `e's loike."

„Certainly." Watson put his hands together and observed me in his benign fashion. „I knows what `e's – that is, I can see what you mean, certainly."

oooOOOooo

We were affirmed in our accordance the minute I put my foot across the threshold of our rooms in Baker Street half an hour later. The picture had changed only in that the matches, hitherto cluttere wildly across the floor, had been arranged in a neat pattern of squares that in their entirety formed a spiral-like structure which extended from one side of the room to its far end. A litle bit of space had been saved right by the window, and that was where Sherlock had withdrawn to, busily scribbling numbers into a chalk-drawn roster on his blackboard, orderly and to me, wholly enigmatic.

„Well." I cast a quick glance around, my eyes finally settling on my husband who, clad only in his shirt and trousers, hair hanging into his forehead boyishly, was doing his best to ignore my presence. „Apart from causin' this incredible mess, wiv the side effect o' scaring Mrs. `udson from our rooms, ye're quite in yer right senses, are ya?"

„It's advanced, really", he replied feverishly, using his already blotched sleeve to erase a number from the roster.

„Sherlock!" I set my arms akimbo and fixed an insistent glare upon him. „Wha' on earth may ye be doin' `ere? We wanna `ave tea in `ere an hour from now, an' I `ave no mind `o serving it meself!"

Eventually, he had the kindness to turn around for an instant, whereby he grabbed for his silver cigarette case. „Sudoku", he observed negligently, putting down the chalk stick and browsing the window-sill for a box of matches. „A challenging japanese riddle of figures. I discovered it in connection with the diappearance of Mr. Kenzo. _Sacré_!"

Disappointed to find his supply of boxes empty to the last, he tossed the cigarette to the floor.

„Tsk, tsk!" I tutted, and, with a little bit of effort, got on my knees to gather the cigarette as well as one of the plentiful matches from the spiral.

„Don't!" he shrieked apprehensively when I threatened to touch his work, „it's the snail shell of Amaterasu!"

„You know my dear", I replied thoughtfully, accepting his hand and steadying myself on my husband as I rose from the floor, „sometimes I find yer escapades amusing. In an uncanny way, mind. But I cannot for the loife `o me imagine `ow we are s'pposed ter manage in here when things progress."

„Huh?" His eyes and thoughts had already returned to the challenge on his blackboard, swifter than a change in wind direction.

„This `ere flat, Sherlock!" I said a little louder, bringing up what for some time had weighed on my mind rather heavily. „It's be too small fer a man's obsession, a woman's clutter an' the needs o' a little lad or lass!"

„Will it?" he put the chalk stick to his chin, bestowing a dazzled look n me.

„It will", I affirmed strenously. „We shall `aver ter look fer an alternative…move outta `ere in, say, a year or two at the very latest."

„Move out of this flat?" The idea seemed to upset him gravely. He buried his hands in his trouser pockets, and, with a trace of defiance, stood by the window to gaze down into the road, as he had done these many, many years. Of a sudden, all that had been comical fled the situation. There was something so pitiable in his bearing that I honestly resolved to have patience, but it wore thin quickly.

"Well?" I urged him, " "Watcha think?"

He sighed, and it sounded like the sigh of the long suffering. "Where?" he asked me.

"Where? I dunno. Someplaice in the country, I should think. Kent, perhaps, or Hertfordshire. It `ardly matters to me. At any rate, London is not for a child. This – life is not for a child."

There was a bit of silence before he asked: "And what about me?"

"Whatcha mean, what about you?" For some reason, his question angered me.

"I love London", he professed quietly. "I need it. It is my habitat. Out of it, I am lost – I'd find no space to exert my powers, no subjects for my art. The city is the perfect place for me: and London the perfect city."

"Tha's rubbish!" I snapped. "Why'd ya oppose ter practicing in the country? Some o' yer greatest cases were set in the countryside, weren't they? Jus' remember Boscombe Valley, Musgrave Manor, the great Grimpen Mire! Did'n't they offer opportunities aplenty fer you to excel?"

"I don't see why we shouldn't get a larger place in town, if you insist on moving", he returned, a trifle colder. "My practice is not likely to benefit from a change in address, but it's still far more likely to flourish in, let us say, Edgeware or Richmond than in some god-forsaken backwater!"

"'ow can ya be so selfish?" His egotism only fuelled my anger further. "We're talkin' 'bout the welfare of our chile 'ere! I assumed you'd care about it as much as I do, seeing 'ow ya took such great pains ter acquire it?"

I used the commercial term on purpose, and really, he paled a little before he raised his hands in a half-soothing, half-angry fashion.

"Please, Catherine…!"

"It's true, ain't it!" I interrupted him spitefully. "Then le's do it prop'ly, at the least!" I stopped, heavily breathing, and we assessed each other for a moment. "I knows I don't 'ave an awful lot ter say in the way o' 'is future", I went on, a little calmer. "It is plain ter see you've worked out 'is education an' all that in minute detail. So I at least reserve the right to decide the plaice o' 'is upbringin', an' it won't be 'ere in this hotbed o' sin that's seen 'is Mama fall from Gawd an' live in a bad way.

I wanna give 'im the fresh, uncorrupted air o' field an' forest ter breathe – none o' dirty, smoky, foggy London town where thieves and villains are lurkin' in ever' corner! You've 'ad it Sherlock, an' I've 'ad it, too. Why should we then deny it our own chile?"

He scrutinized me, then arrogantly shrugged his shoulder as though the whole question barely concerned him, as though he were not considerably affected by my words.

"We'l do as you think right, then. You go and chose a suitable home for our son. I, however, will retain this flat as a second place of residence, to come to London as the need arises."

Now, that would suit him right! He would keep Baker Street to come and go, to walk in and out of my life as though it were a public alehouse!

"So, that's 'ow ya imagines it! Are there no limits t'yer selfishness?"

"It is the uttermost compromise", Sherlock pronounced, and it sounded final. "You shall achieve the childhood idyll you're hankering after, though I doubt a son of mine will greatly care for it. Much rather, he'll thrive on the optimal instruction I can provide – "

"So I've seen", was what almost escaped me when my mind recurred to the highbrow curriculum my husband had drafted for the most essential years in my child's development, but I checked myself just in time. Sherlock suspecting I were in the habit of rifling through his things was about the last thing I wanted.

" – and in exchange, I hope it is not too much to ask to retain the conditions under which I may lead a fruitful professional life…even if that means I shall have to separate it from my life as a family man, which I regret."

This last bit rang so sincere and funnily touching that I saw myself moved to reconsider his proposition. Maybe it would not be too bad to live out of town with Sherlock spending some time in Baker Street now and then. Sure enough, it would mean a regular phase of recreation for my child – time for it to spend with its mother.

After all, Sherlock _did_ have a point: Perhaps it was not right of me to ask him to retreat to the country entirely, even though he would find mysteries to solve everywhere, I thought wearily. No, the idea was not so wholly objectionable as I had thought at first mention. But his thick - skinned assumption that I would agree to the existence of a part time wife, so to say, still offended me. Therefore, my tone was rather cool as I replied: "Well, if you 'ave made the decision, there is nothing more ter be said."

Sherlock shrugged an elegant shoulder. "I should think not. I'd regret if you proved incapable of befriending the notion, but as you say, if you refuse my offer to procure a suitable dwelling-place in town, there is nothing further to discuss."

"Fine." I sighed deeply. "You'll know what's best fer you – fer all o' us, I suppose."

"Naturally. It is all for the best. I – " he indicated the lettered blackboard, as though it somehow were part of his identity, " – will be able to continue unmolested, while you and the child will be spared the inconvenience of this", he pointed at the somewhat unintelligible product of his activity on the floor.

He stepped across it with an amount of care he would have wasted on no human being, and gently, without aggression, inclined his head towards mine. I offered my cheek with good grace, and he kissed it, probably unaware of the nagging sense of discontent that persisted in me.

"How good you smell", he breathed, accelerating my pulse for several beats.

"It's, er, a new fragrance I tried", I floundered weakly, charmed and bemused. "Ginger and sandalwood."

"It suits you." He briefly fondled my hair; then remarked: "I will require Mrs. Hudson's services here in Baker Street in the future, of course. You will manage with a newly engaged domestic, I expect?"

I stiffened and sighed inaudibly when his apparently casual caress struck me as the clever expediency it probably constituted. "Certainly I will, Sherlock. Would ya now excuse me? It seems I am in an increased need o' havin' a nap at noon time."

"Yes, yes, quite natural." He sounded just a trifle too relieved for my liking. "By all means, rest yourself…we shall work out the particulars of our project at some point…later on…tomorrow…"

I had not closed the door behind me when again he was lost in the challenge of figures jotted down in the roster. His essential disinterest in our future family life was but too clear to me. I was not surprised, though, not I. For that, I had learned to assess him too well. However, I was still unable to reconcile with some of his most idiosyncratic and unchangeable features; and something inside me desired to punish him for his lack of sympathy.

Therefore, I resolved not to convey the invitation to the opera Natasha had extended; and to excuse him to the couple on the grounds of his back-breaking workload.

I felt not in the wrong in doing so. After all, had he not asked me to spare him my friend's presence? I would just do him the favour and bar him from our party.

oooOOOooo

When two weeks had passed and the time had come, I carried out my resolution. With just a brief word of explanation to my husband, I left him in the early evening to meet Natasha and Dr. Levhin at Hyde Park Corner. They were punctual, and we hired a cab to drive down to South Kensington and the Royal Albert Hall, where _Tosca _was to be staged.

I only, _only_ we had not done so.

**Hey there!**

**No, I'm not dead! Nor is the story which is dear to me and which I intend to see through to the last chapter. My only excuse for the, admittedly, lengthy break is that my life, heretofore a leisurely flowing stream, has developed treacherous eddies and rapids all of a sudden. **

**Anyway! Just some things before I carry on (next chapter's on the way hehe). It seems I cannot reply to some of my readers, probably because they didn't subscribe to FFnet. So let me reply right here:**

_**Ashley**_**: I would love a fanart! I tried to do some myself(Kitty being refused by Sherlock, Kitty and Sherlock hiding behind a sunshade, and so on and so on), but they were no good, really. So, if you tried something, I would be moved. Really! You could send it to me to make it my avatar, or post it on deviantart….**

_**LMBaskerville**_**: Thank you! It's great to see someone shares my point of view: Sherlock never experienced romance in the canon, so we can't know what such a situation would do to him. As to the time line, I am not too strict about such things. I just set the story in an arbitrary year, without thinking about events in the past or yet to come. Sorry for being so confusing!**

_**Luke Hoffman**_**&**_**AnnaBanana**_**: Thanks for your participation in this story! I am so glad to see it got new readers during my "hiatus". Keep on checking & reviewing, guys!**

**One last thing: I've been out of school for a couple of years now and university is not doing much for my English fluency. I keep reading literature, but still, things are slipping away and now and then, I catch myself integrating German idioms into the text. Should any such thing strike your attention: Do not hesitate to mention!**

**Ouch, now my cake got burnt in the oven! I'll see what I can do to save it…till next time! Love, mrs. forsyte**


	72. Chapter 72

Chapter seventy-two: Time doesn't heal

30th November 1887

"_All her crime was a fond fantasy." Goethe's Faust_

"Kitty? What is it, child?"

A soft pad on my head told me that my lover had woken from the peaceful and profound slumber he could only achieve through the intensity of our mutual satisfaction. Now, however, his sleep had been disturbed, and I knew I was the reason, though I did nothing bar lying still with my eyes wide open.

His hyper-sensibility, so much liable to bring about complications and strife between us, kept him informed about my state of mind; let him know whenever our love-making had brought me no relaxation.

"I been thinkin'…." With unseeing eyes, lashes beating only rarely, I was staring into the dark. Sherlock sighed and gathered me closer to his bosom, a gesture of affection which was made all the more precious by the fact that he bestowed such tenderness on me so seldom.

"Kitty my dear – did I say something wrong? Is it still about our arrangement with a country home? I know I pretended it was final, but if after all you should find you cannot adapt to the notion – "

"'tis not that", I croaked, softly stroking my belly in my abstraction.

"What then?" He rose, supporting himself on his elbow, and regarded me mutely for some seconds, but when I hesitated to answer, he groaned exasperatedly. "Now do not play games with me Catherine, you know I can't stand it. You admit to there being something on your mind, as any fool could see even with the light extinguished. Perhaps you will be good enough to bring to my notice what it is that keeps your sleep away?"

I swallowed laboriously. "We 'ad an encoun'er yesterday."

"We? Who is that 'we'? Whom did you encounter?"

I withdrew my shoulder from his hold impatiently. "Natasha an' an' I, o' course. We met somebody at the opera."

I sensed his muscles tense although he made no comment. "Go on."

"Well." I sighed, and drew the duvet up to my chin. "We 'ave been ter the Royal Albert 'all as ya knows, ter see 'Tosca'…"

oooOOOooo

29th November 1887

How glamorous the opera is! To me, whom I was not spoilt by too many festivities or outings these days, the circular music hall possessed the splendor and allure of a palace, a ball room and the theatre all in one with its plush crimson seats and the gilt railings.

How Lorenzo would have loved to paint the festive crowd, I mused as I pushed aside the sumptuous velveteen curtains as Dr. Levhin ushered his fiancé and me into our separate box.

"Thank you", Natasha said prettily as he led her toward her seat right at the balustrade. He had given her a small bunch of youth-and-old-age, which she, well-behaved, held in her hands together with the pre-printed program. I admired her straight attitude, the glossy black hair done in a French twist and her crèpe-de-chine evening gown. It was of a rich, dark forest green, I noticed, and braided with gold brocade, even though Natasha had been rarely seen in anything save black since – since.

I briefly shook my head and sent a word of praise towards heaven. God bless Dr. Levhin! He had a wonderfully positive effect on my friend. The frightened, misused woman had taken a remarkable measure of trust in this new man in her life within a relatively short time span, a trust I had feared she would never again establish towards a representative of the opposite sex.

Moreover, he seemed to be sincerely fond of her. I could see it in his every move, his gaze riveted on her, the way he adjusted her chair for her. His entire attention appeared so exclusively fixed on her that I was honestly confused when he addressed me to offer me a seat as well.

"Are you comfortable, my dear? Hush! Have a look ladies; it would seem they are getting started."

And indeed, he was right. I had just time to take the proffered seat with proper decorum ere the heavy, scarlet curtain in front started to move. The musicians in the orchestra pit had been producing quaint, incoherent twangs on their bows and strings for some time, now; however, the faint din was rising to an orderly hierarchy of sound – music.

I listened in rapture as the light was dimmed and finally faded out above an audience that slowly settled to expectant silence. Before the fall of complete darkness, I caught a last glimpse of Natasha, who put a chaste hand on that of her fiancé. Smilingly, I peered down onto the stage, which thanks to my keen eyes I could observe without the aid of an opera glass.

The stage design was sparse and jejune, but the acting certainly was not. I had neglected to make myself familiar with the contents of the opera, and with the little Italian I had picked up from Lorenzo, I was unable to derive a lot of information from the text in the brochure. Nor did any of the melodies ring familiar.

And yet! On a purely emotional level, I was able to keep track of the action. I was amazed. How was the plump, coarse tenor able to communicate such feeling? In spite of lacking physical resemblance, I was compelled to think of Sherlock at the passionate "_Il mio solo piensero, Tosca, sei tu!"_

It plainly took my breath away. For a single, solemn moment, I believed in his love, in Cavaradossi's, in Sherlock's, I believed in us; I identified with Flora Tosca who made her appearance in a dramatic flame-coloured gown. Suddenly, I wished Holmes were there, by my side, listening to the music I knew he would appreciate more than anyone of our party and most of the total audience.

Why had I withheld such delight from him? Out of a discontented whim? It seemed so petty and selfish here in the presence of songs about great love. Still, I thought sadly, looking over to where Natasha was sitting close to her young doctor, how could I have taken him when he had instructed me expressly to spare him my friend's company?

oooOOOooo

My mood had improved by the time the curtain fell after act three, and I rose and stretched discreetly before I joined the couple who chatted with much animation.

"Wasn't it done wonderfully?" Dr. Levhin enthused. "What did you think, Mrs. Holmes?"

"Oh Doctor, I enjoyed meself e'er so much. But it is 'igh time fer a bit o' a break now!" I laughed easily. "Shall we go down the ap – downstairs, an' stretch our legs fer a bit?"

"Certainly, if you wish it. Yes, what is it my dearest? Are you thirsty?"For Natasha had repeatedly tugged his sleeve as we filed out of our box. "I will get you something presently, ladies. Where shall we meet afterwards?"

"Right 'ere?" I suggested, indicating the lengthy landing on top of the stairs with its crenellated walls and potted palm trees. "Or shall we rather accompany ya?"

"I'll go ahead. You can follow to the launch at your ease", Dr. Levhin decided. He pressed a swift, gallant kiss on the back of Natasha's hand and vanished into the crowd that was slowly moving down the stairs.

My friend took out her program and slowly fanned herself with it. "It is awfully warm in here. I shall be glad about a drink", she confessed smilingly. "So, how _did _you like it, then?"

"I told ya I enjoyed it" I teased, slowly leading the way toward the stairs which was still overflowing with people. "Or didcha think I only said so as not ter appear loike a philistine t'yer fiancé? D'ye taike me fer such a hypocrite?"

"Oh my, Kitty!" Natasha protested laughingly. "I do think you are really a hard-boiled – "

But I should never learn what she thought I was. I saw her stop in mid-speech, pale, and stare spellbound at some point behind me.

"Still the same charmingly sluttish accent", a soft, male voice said above my left shoulder. "Good evening, _ladies_. What a happy reunion of old friends."

oooOOOooo

It was like the crash of a striking thunderbolt when I turned around to face our addresser. My first impulse was one of immeasurable surprise. He, of all people! What was _he_ doing here?

"You seem astonished, Kitty dear", Baron Gruner purred. "I do not know why – I trust it was my custom always to move among the more exalted ranks of society. Much rather, I am surprised to see you here…as far as I know, you used to prefer the company of your inmates from the gutter."

As he spoke, I had time to observe him. I had not seen the Baron in eighteen months, that is to say, not since my trial when he had sued me for physical attack. His wounds had been fresh then, and his ire…

oooOOOooo

_Flahsback…_

"_I shall now read out the charge", the wig-wearing, toad-like little judge announced pompously. "It concerns: Miss Catherine Aidan Winter, resident in Sevendials, London; an artist's model by trade. The plaintiff is Baron Adalbert Gruner, well-known collector and author of numerous scholarly publications ."_

_Nervously I bit my nails. By this introduction, the self-important ass had already disadvantaged me thrice: My address, occupation and my Irish middle name were all apt to influence the jury of London squares disfavourably; and the comparison to Gruner's fame and presupposed respectability would probably do the rest. _

"_Wot's 'e up to?" I hissed angrily as the judge continued to read out my crimes, how I had malignantly assailed the unsuspecting Baron, leaving him viciously mutilated. "'e's getting it all wrong! 'e maikes it sound as though I were a jealous, maniacal banshee!"_

"_Pray contain yourself, Miss Winter", Mr. Holmes, close to me in the confined space of the dock, murmured without averting his gaze from the happenings in front. "He won't cause us trouble. A fool he is, true, but not a corrupted one. Our sole antagonist is he." Holmes nodded at where the Baron was sitting, calmly and to outward appearances, meek as a lamb. _

_Our glances met briefly, both full of hate and a desire for vindication. I shuddered with anger, though it gave me profound gratification to see his face, once of a flawed, but captivating allure, red and swollen and lucent like an inflamed fingertip. The triumph sent another shiver through my body. Good! If nothing else had been gained, at least he would entrap no more innocent, gullible women! My fists closed, which, like all trifles, was noticed instantly by Mr. Holmes, who put an assuaging hand on my arm._

"_Now, there is no need to get all excited over your situation, Miss Winter", he admonished me quietly. "I told you I couldn't promise you will go free – that would be too much to ask, they can't let you. But you'll get off with a slap on the wrist; that I can guarantee. Mr. Maxwell Finley will shed due light on your own sufferings."_

_Again, he gently inclined his head, this time toward the elderly, cadaverous gentleman that pleaded my cause, and, incidentally, at the time was one of the most prominent solicitors The Temple had on offer. I felt a little reassured. Mr. Finley was a capacity in his field. Naturally, I could never have dreamt of interesting him sufficiently in my case, much less of paying his remuneration. The juridical coryphaeus had been placed at my disposal by the mysteriously evasive person generally referred to as 'The Illustrious Client'._

"_Things will run smoothly for you now, Kitty. Only, you must not fly off the handle and set the jury's opinion against you, then all will be well", my moral succor inculcated me speedily as I was invoiced by the Court. We rose as one, with me nervously fingering my hair, pinned up into a puffy bun as Mr. Holmes had suggested._

oooOOOooo

All of this passed through my mind with light velocity as I saw myself confronted with the man who had ruined, if not my life, then at least an essential period thereof. His burns had healed far better than mine, I observed, probably due to superior medical care. What I had poorly treated with oils and Vaseline, the best doctors in London presumably had looked after for him. At the very least, he did not look a veritable cripple, more like a man with a severe stroke of actinocutitis.

In addition, his voice was the same as ever: A rich, soft baritone, suggesting an agreeable temper and sensuality even though his words very venomous. "Kitty, Kitty, Kitty – I would not have dreamt of seeing you again, not to count, of course, any photographs of you I may possess. And the painting, you remember, the one dating from the time when you could boast a décolleté from which men were not compelled to flinch."

"That would 'ave been about the time ya 'ad a nose in yer mug, Gruner?" I returned acridly. Of course he was here – had been bound to be here all along. I had forgotten about his passion for Italian music.

His face, almost imperceptibly, darkened a little, but his laughter still sounded unfeigned. "Still the little hothead, eh? If you can't get away from that through some lessons well learned, it is probably encoded in your low-grade leprechaun genes. But I like that", he smiled covetously as I clenched my teeth. "If you asked for it prettily, I would consider taking you back – you owe me something for that one, don't you think?"

He was still smiling gently when he indicated his scalded, speckled face, but there was something dangerous underlying his tones of frivolous brazenness. My inside felt low and cold at the sound of the voice I had come to loathe. I could imagine all too well what would happen to me, were I fool enough to agree to his facetious proposition. Torture, rape, ceaseless humiliations, disfigurement and eventual death (not the pleasant sort) were some of the first possibilities to cross my mind.

"On the day that 'ell freezes", I gnashed. "By Golly, you ne'er been a beauty, Adalbert, but it would 'ave been better for ya if I 'ad ta'en yer manhood as well – would save ya the trouble 'o an unpromising quest fer willing women."

"You…!"

In the heat of the moment, he raised his hand so as to slap me, but I did not wince, I stood tall and kept my gaze locked with his until finally he let the hand sink again. Some kind of perception was mirrored by his eyes, ablaze with wrath and consternation. Presumably, Adalbert Gruner recognized just this moment he was not dealing with little Kitty Winter, a naïve, dreamy girl of twenty-two. Much rather, he was facing Mrs. Catherine Holmes, a grown-up, respectable married woman, and I quite openly demonstrated the fact by displaying my swollen womb and my wedding band, as though they were the spear and escutcheon I had to ward him off with.

He might have distorted and debased me, but, by Jove, he had not defeated me! It appeared that the same idea had struck him this very instant, for he ran me over coldly, yet insecurely.

"You're someone else's trollop now. So I've heard. That man Holmes, eh? Well, I expect you give him his deserts, if I look at that unsightly paunch you have there", he gibed, but even he realized the weakness of the provocation as I kept my calm, icy glare fixed upon him.

There was an awkward minute's silence during which we were busy looking daggers at each other. Finally, it was broken by the Baron who spit out on the beautiful crimson carpet disdainfully.

"Very well, my congratulations. The fellow may find his blessings in your little bastard for all that I care. But you – you nasty witch – " He stepped quite close, so close I could see every pore on his uneven, bumpy facial skin. "You will pay for what you've done to me, depend upon it. Nobody thwarts Adalbert Gruner with impunity. Mark my words!"

The internal feeling of dreadful coldness increased. I did not know how to fight it. Staring at him with eyes wide open, I suddenly began to laugh. It started quite involuntarily, of its own accord, but even when I gained control over it, I felt no inclination to smother it, on the contrary, I was enjoying a good laugh, I had never felt better in my life.

I was free! Free at last from the haunting nightmare that was Baron Gruner, free from the power he exerted over his abandoned lovers. He was there, standing straight before me, and I didn't care a whit! I was laughing still when he turned away from me, his anger sparsely disguised.

"And you, dear Natasha", I heard him through the bright ripples of my merriment, "so silent? You used to be more raucous on occasion, I seem to remember."

My eyes fell on Natasha, mute and pale, her arms clapped to her sides helplessly, and my laughter died away. The woman had not moved from the spot in which she had stopped, and in her large, brilliant, pearly eyes above the slightly opened mouth lay an expression I could not construe – was it yearning – or idolatry? The Baron was likely to have noticed it as well, I perceived at a quick glance, for he was grinning viciously, his voice more silky and cajoling than ever.

"This is a gathering indeed, isn't it? I see you have befriended my good kitten here – why don't you start a club for alumni?"

The bewilderment and longing in Natasha's eyes made my heart break. With considerable ferocity, I attempted to shove Gruner aside, but he caught me by the arm and turned it on my back as if it were a mere length of pliable wire. I yelped with pain.

"Would that be about the correct volume, my sweet Tasha? My, my, you were a loud one if one knew how to take you – too sad your bony derrière spoilt the fun for me, so you see, I had no further use for you; I had to give you up…"

Natasha's beautiful eyes slowly filled with tears, but she said not a word, did not come to my help as I struggled and vociferated. "Ye're breakin' me chalk! 'old yer bloody box an' get yerself gone cabbage, afore I kicks ya up the bottle! Yeah, bog off, or we'll 'ave the coppers in!"

"What is going on here?" A male, authoritative voice resounded from the stairs. "Get away from the ladies, man, this instant!"

Dr. Levhin smoothly slid in between his fiancé and the Baron, and his rolled up sleeves showed that he meant business. Gruner hesitated, then let go off me and retreated one step. "It's all the same to me. Keep your rag bags, if you must", he scoffed. "But remember my words, hell-cat: You _will_ pay."

With these words, he turned on his heel and made for the exit, but turned around once more to jeer: "A nice bridegroom you have there, Tasha! But does he appreciate your real merits, I wonder?"

Dr. Levhin, a trifle pale, put his arm around his fiancé and pulled her closer as he looked after the retreating form. I was so occupied yelling: "Ya, use yer bacons!" and:"Scarper off, manky josser!" that I came to reason only when I heard him ask quietly:

"Are you alright, my darling? You are not hurt, I trust?"

But he answer, not given by Natasha, was self-evident. Her long, genteel figure was slightly swaying, no longer supported by her legs but by Levhin's arm, and her teary eyes were still fixed upon the spot where Baron Gruner had just disappeared.

**Oufff, no more, I'm "crackin' tired" ad need to go to bed! I shall leave the comment making to you….**

**Love, tired **


	73. Chapter 73

Chapter seventy-three: While the light lasts

30th November 1887

"_A forest bird fair I became that day/_

_Fly away! Fly away!" Goethe's Faust_

From the unexpected appearance of the Baron until his exit, this was the course of events as repeated by me for my lover's benefit. He remained quiet, despondent, as if not quite sure how to comment upon it; and I reckoned he would leave it at that. But I was proven my error when my husband did indeed react, if not in any way I might have anticipated.

"Poor thing", he uttered. I marveled at the quaint, unwontedly tender quality of his voice, so little in accordance with my beloved computing automaton.

"Darling", I began, breaking off again, unsure of my position. I was afraid of putting myself in the wrong, of violating his sense of privacy if I dared inquire after his reasons for avoiding my friend, but he, in his unfathomable fashion, guessed at my thoughts, unerring, without fail.

"You wish to understand my aversion to the young woman", he professed. I nodded slowly. Yes, I would sure feel more at my ease comprehending this strange caprice of his, even if it did not change a thing in regard to his attitude toward Natasha.

Sherlock sighed as he trailed a languorous hand through my hair, fanned out all round me on the pillows.

"She reminds me of someone", he confessed calmly. "She brings to my mind someone I had thought long covered in the shrouds of the past, someone I hoped never to be confronted with again. But this girl – Natasha's the name? – her face, her voice, her bearing – everything..!

I would confound my weakness. But we haven't control of all things, and I sincerely ask you, Kitty, to respect my wishes and not to introduce her to my presence again."

"Tha's well understood", I whispered, snuggling closer to him between the sheets and putting my arms around his sparse form. "But why, dearest? Will you not tell me?"

"No, I won't", he replied firmly, but not unkindly. "Not today. Just rest assured it doesn't concern you."

"Roigh as rain", I muttered hoarsely.

Then we lay there in the dim twilight of the breaking dawn. I did not budge, not even when he nestled closer to me, his hands closing around my fingers and stroking them pensively.

"I fear for her", he declared.

I was lying for a while afterwards, waiting for further explanation, but he had fallen asleep.

oooOOOooo

So that was all which to glean from our scanty discussion of the topic I was destined. At first thought, it told me little – Natasha brought to him the ghost of some distressing memory. I could not exactly tell whom, or what it involved, but a nagging, noxious seed of suspicion was planted in my brain.

A definite notion came to my mind an hour after I had left Sherlock's bedroom that morning, and another hour made it grow into a certainty. Surely, the recollection my companion's appearance suggested to Sherlock must have been about someone very dear to him, someone he had lost or decided to part from – a former lover, possibly? A love long lost….the idea seemed hardly compatible to my dour, unaffectionate man.

Still, it remained the only explanation to cover the facts, as he might have put it himself, I mused with a smile simultaneously fond and troubled. Why did I even find it so very incredible? There was no earthly reason why he should not have had a vast number of female associates before my time, none to ascertain he might not have been seriously attached to one of them.

He was reserved, true, and cold, and expressly inapproachable – but to all intents and purposes, he was capable of at least some emotion, and the time we had spent together in bed had proven he was by no means inapproachable for the temptation of woman. So, if that was the case, and if a woman similar to my crony had once been lucky enough to possess his heart….did it not necessarily follow that he was in love with Natasha, or at least afraid he might fall in love? Would not that account for his emphatic desire never to set eyes on her again?

My conviction became stronger each minute I spent pondering. If I was right and Sherlock Holmes stood on the brink of falling for a woman who thought of him not as a love interest, but solely as the husband of a dear friend, and a potential friend in his own right, it would be the wisest course to take to tell her outright. Not only would it prevent disappointment on her part, it would also prepare her for what might otherwise be taken as a display of extreme incivility, to the point of a virtual insult.

I was a connoisseur of Natasha's psyche so far as to be sure it would have a very negative effect on her self-esteem to give her the impression of being slighted. Therefore, I set forth to write a letter to her. I allowed myself little personal feeling as I did so; it was a mere necessity on behalf of my pal and my beloved. It would set his mind at rest to see the matter settled, and hers to receive some sort of explanation for his reticence.

It took me some little time to draft the letter, for I wanted to depict the situation in such a way as to flatter Natasha rather than hurt her feelings. Thus, the day had grown into noon time when finally I had occasion to post it. Afterwards, I thought no more of it, courtesy to the fact that I did not wish to. Mary Watson had filed a claim on me for an amateur charity concert she was planning together with the other ladies from the _Street Girl's Mission_, and I was compelled to endless rehearsals of "A-roving" and "Robin Adair", so that at night I dropped into my bed, dead tired.

When in the afternoon of the following day I had not had word from my chum, it struck me as curious. Hopefully, I had found the right voice? Her silence disturbed me so much that I undertook the short walk to her place of dwelling. The porter of the large tenement did not object to my entrance; he knew me by sight. I reached Natasha's door unhampered, but here my advance was cut short, for my knocking was met with persistent silence.

"Natasha", I called out, knocking again, "Are ya in? Natasha, answer the bloomin' – "

"She won't", a high, petulant voice informed me. "I've been trying to see her all day."

I revolved slowly, knowing the speaker by her intonation. "Whatcha doin' 'ere, Betsy?"

"Doing", the petulant voice corrected me with self-satisfaction. "It's 'doing', Kitty. You'll never appropriate proper language for yourself – much less realize you cannot monopolize people at your leisure. I'm Natasha's chum as well, you know."

"Are ya."

I coolly scrutinized the youngish woman in front of me. Of course I had known that Betsy had renewed her contact with Natasha during the past months, although I had never approved of it. Betsy was another past affair of Baron Gruner's; he had often cultivated parallel relationships and that was how some of us had come to know each other. I had myself been friendly with some of them, but Betsy I had always disliked and distrusted.

I disliked her now as she stood there, sullen and defiant, her dark wavy head graciously outbalanced on her swan's neck, her amazingly blue eyes, set in a face quite lovely but slowly aging, scorchingly directed at me as though she wished to defy me through mesmerism.

As a rule, the Baron had used to prefer tall, brunette girls to my own type, but had occasionally made exceptions, which was why Betsy had had to cede her place to me. That this had been a rescue of sorts from the fate which had befallen me evidently was not her predominant feeling; she still grudged me my success with the abominable man and made me feel it each time our paths crossed.

"I don't seem ter recall yer presence in 'er time o' need, but o' course ye're free ter call yerself whate'er a likes. If Natasha won't see me, however, it's bloody unlikely she'll answer to you, so clear off."

"I'll do what I choose", Betsy snapped in return. "You may think you can just come along and pocket people, but you can't!"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Stay, then. It's no use anyway. She's gone awt…."

I stopped, tripping over my own words. There was the envelope of a letter sticking out of Natasha's post slot. My letter! If she had gone out, why the devil had she not removed her mail and opened it? My confusion must have been all too apparent, for Betsy perceived it in an instant.

"What's this? What about that wretched letter?"

"Jus'…nothing…"

Squinting my eyes at the neglected epistle, I slowly shook my head from side to side. I knew Natasha to be keen on every kind of attention she received, limited as her range of contacts was. It just did not seem like her to treat her mail so novercally. In the meantime, my unpleasant companion had seen through my bewilderment, for she smirked: "Oh, you wrote it then. It's no miracle she doesn't care for it. Natasha is a proper lady; she does not require the company of a Miss Kitty Winter…"

"Kitty Winter no longer", I returned coldly. "For you, it's Mrs. Holmes now, if ya don't mind."

"You're married…" Betsy drawled with a gaze at my ring finger, half contemptuous, half envious.

"An' pregnant", I added importantly, presenting my rotund badge of honour once more. Betsy's jealous eyes seemed to pierce me for a second; then she was mistress of herself again.

"Of course, I know that." She paused suddenly, her lips set, as though she regretted having said something wrong. "Natasha mentioned it", she explicated crossly. "It must have meant quite an advance in your career."

"Well, I wouldn't call it that", I declared pompously. "Compared to yer situation, it surely is. I 'ave further ambitions in life."

Which was, naturally, mere hypocrisy, but it sufficed to hush my cantankerous acquaintance. I left her standing by the closed door. She could try her luck till the cows came home for all that I cared. But as concerned Natasha, I started to be angry with her. This constant problem child! Where was she now?

oooOOOooo

The question remained unexplained until the day after. In the meantime, I received no note, telegram or letter to give me a hint as to my friend's whereabouts. In the afternoon of the third day to follow _Tosca_, I could stand it no more.

I took the 2.30 to Sheperd's Bush, only to learn at the nerve clinic that Dr. Levhin had taken a holiday to make the necessary preparations for the wedding, and could be found at his city address in Ealing. Thither I went, and after rioting a little at his front door was even permitted to see the doctor. Levhin had his valet lead me into the library, and after some little while, the man himself appeared, hastily putting on his dressing gown.

For his personality and the hour of the day, his attire was exceedingly slovenly, and he excused himself at once. Apparently, there had been a little celebration among his bachelor friends on the previous night. No, he had not heard from his fiancée, he admitted with stirring remorse. He had not tried to make contact these three days, except for one short visit on the day after the opera, to see if she was well. Yes, she had appeared bright and chipper as far as he could tell, but his assertions lacked conviction, and he seemed to doubt them himself as he spoke.

I determined to waste no more time. "Dr. Levhin", I said firmly, "Natasha has been seen by nobody since tha' call o' yers, though attempts 'ave been made not on'y by me, but also by a mutual acquaintance. She neither answers the door nor her correspondence, she does not e'en check it. I'm worried, I'm very, very worried indeed."

"Yes…it seems…" Dr. Levhin passed a perplexed hand through his ruffled hair. He seemed completely at a loss.

"We 'ad better go to her flat at once", I suggested strenuously. "Force in the door, if necessary. Natasha must be found, or, if it turns out she 'as disappeared, we must be prepared ter taike steps. You di'n't 'ear the words o' Baron Gruner, but they were nothing short of a threat. I assume ya knows about their common past?"

Levhin nodded curtly.

"Good then. I recommend ya gets into suitable clothes an' 'aver yer cab ready. We ought ter start wivout unnecessary delay."

Dr. Levhin did not stop to question my quasi commands. For that, I had fazed him too much. Within the quarter of an hour, he was ready to travel, and it took us only about twice the time to arrive in the heart of London.

Our drive was a silent one. None of us wished to remind the other of the possibility that Natasha had effectively gone missing. We reached her home at a quarter to six. Levhin told the cabman to wait, and together we rushed into the house.

While the doctor called on the porter to forward the hermitic tenant's duplicate keys, I went ahead to Natasha's door. As before, neither knocking nor calling had any effect on the state of the door, it remained locked. The only thing I noticed, just as Dr. Levhin caught up with me, was my letter, or rather the fact that it suck no longer in the postal slot. But little did I heed that.

Somehow, I succeeded in wrenching the keys from the doctor's hand, and again was ahead of him as I made my way into the flat. All blinds were down, and there was an airless, musty smell in the rooms. At any rate, I did not advance far. From the bedroom I returned, my steps reversed, and sped back to the front door to drag out my companion. Though tears uncontrollably streamed down my face, my sobbing was not articulated, on the contrary, my voice was clear and steady as I fended him off.

"Don't go in there, Dr. Levhin…Raphael…please, don't go in there!"

But of course, he did. And many, many people after him.

oooOOOooo

It was after ten when I returned home that night. Sherlock was sitting up for me as was his custom now, being the later sleeper out of us two anyway. He betrayed no signs of surprise or concern as I, having dragged myself up the stairs, threw myself across his lap, my sobbing now fluent and unrestrained.

"Sherlock – she – she – "

"I know", he replied earnestly, without an effort at solace. "I was afraid something of the kind was inevitable."

**So, here we go again! You know, it was an inspiration to read your comments. I did not actually plan to extend Gruner's vindictiveness to Kitty, but actually it's a good idea! Next chapter, you'll learn more about his sinister plans…**

**Love, mrs. forsyte**


	74. Chapter 74

Chapter seventy-four: The Way of all Flesh

7th December 1887

"_I am so young, so young too! And now to die!/ It was my ruin that so fair was I." Goethe's Faust_

"'ow did ya mean?" I murmured gently behind my veil, peering steadily down into the pit. "'ow did ya mean: Ya knew somefink like that would 'appen? You've 'ardly ever met Natasha. Even I, who knew 'er to be sort of…self-destructive…"

"I did not foresee her suicide", Sherlock replied curtly.

He stood next to me on the edge of the open grave, avoiding my direct gaze just as I avoided his. In addition to his mourning garb, he was wearing a dark gauze armlet round his right forearm.

"I should have, but I didn't. I might have prevented this tragedy through intervention, had I minded my instincts. I don't know."

"Stuff 'n nonsense", I returned sadly while the minister, having read the eulogy, stepped aside to let the gravediggers throw the first shovel of soil on the coffin's lid. It came down upon it with a heavy thud. Another one followed swiftly. "'ow could ya 'ave foretold it would come to this when I, her closest pal…"

"I told you", he cut in, and it sounded almost testy. "I told you she reminded me."

A strange excitement came over me, though I stood on the brink of the pit, unshaken. Now, confide….!

Sherlock appeared to have read my thoughts, for he brusquely ejaculated: "She was my mother's living image, you know. Not so much in outward appearance, perhaps, although a certain – fragility – "

I tentatively reached for his hand, and even though he did not exactly accept mine, he did not withdraw it.

"I'm sorry", I whispered, too low almost for him to catch. He issued a short laugh, nervous and bizarre.

"No need to be sorry. You know I had lost her early. However, I neglected to mention – "

"She killed 'erself", I supplemented his unfinished sentence.

"Watson", he said with another such strange laugh, which this time resembled a sob. His teeth were gritted and he blinked frequently.

"'t wan't none o' his fault", I muttered softly, stroking his hand with my thumb. "I came by it as - a piece o' circumstantial knowledge. Never mind…I was thinking, when ya wouldn't admit her to our life – "

"It was painful to look at her", he confessed, "painful, but alluring. I did not wish to expose myself to the onerous temptation of looking at her, listening to her talk, conversing with her…and all the while perceiving my mother. Why, what were you thinking?"

"That you'd been in love, o' course", I whispered hoarsely. "I imagined…"

"Don't", he interrupted, putting his arm around my shoulders gingerly, an outrageous public display of affection in his terms. "My imbecilic little woman."

We stood without speaking, closely together by the hole in the ground that was to be Natasha's tomb. I took the white lily I had brought along and tossed it over the edge. A small gust caught it and carried it higher up before it escaped from the aerial eddy and slowly descended to settle on the dull clay, its wet dirtiness messing up the pretty blossom, for it had started to snow in thin, sparse flakes. They fluttered against my black gauze veil occasionally.

Natasha Orlansky had been dead four days now. She had been found by her good friend Kitty Holmes, strangulated with the belt of her negligee which had pended from the ceiling above her bed. The papers had without exception reported the suicide – _Sun_, _Globe_, _Pall Mall_, all of them. The details had been diligently spread all over town – but none had expressed the tiniest bit of the loss community had suffered through this death, the loss I felt.

My feeling was not shared by many, actually. I had anticipated and dreaded the empty graveyard, and therefore summoned every soul I knew and could influence to Highgate Cemetery: John and Mary Watson, Mrs. Hudson, the teachers from the Mission school, the writer Mr. G-, the now-respectable Phoebe and my still-disreputable chums from the _Cock&Horse_ pub.

It was quite a slightly number that were jostling each other on the God's acre, so I could be content with my contribution. Of course, Betsy had insisted on making an appearance, along with several discarded lovers of the Baron – women of my ilk for the most part, singers, chorus girls, actresses, barmaids, wardrobe ladies. Dr. Levhin had not come. He had taken ill the day after we had foud Natasha in her flat, and I had dissuaded him from attending the burial.

The grave was now almost filled up with soil. I raised my eyes from the gradually leveling ground and met the gaze of one of the women on the far side of the pit. She was quite small, her heart-shaped face framed by light caramel waves. Her look was intent and for a moment I thought she was watching me, but of course she was only looking at me because I stood opposite to her.

"It's a good thing you did for your friend, Kitty", Sherlock suddenly observed, rousing me from my daydreaming. "This – funeral, you arranged it nicely. Thank you."

"Why say thank you?" I looked up at him with surprised eyes. "You must have liked 'er very much indeed….or rather, there must 'ave been a strong likeness indeed."

"Yes. It strikes me that I cannot recall my mother's funeral – certainly there must have been one, but I don't recall it. Suicide was even less accepted socially in those days than it is now. Probably my father was ashamed and tried to hush things up…at least I'm convinced the same pains were not taken for mother's sepulture."

Our conversation, apart from the mourning party and half-whispered, amazed me more and more. Not even in the extreme privacy of our home had Sherlock confided so much of his family life in me.

"Ye're not talkin' about yer father as though ya liked 'im very much", I remarked cautiously, but this interruption had already been too much, had indeed disrupted his fragile confidentiality.

"He wasn't a likeable father, neither" Sherlock snapped; surlily stepping away from me as the assembly round Natasha's grave began to disperse.

Startled by his abrupt swing of mood, I turned away too, only in the opposite direction. My consternation, though, was tempered by the knowledge that his anger was did not focus on me, but on some unfathomable detail in his past, something related to Nathaniel Holmes, the bigger-than-life figure in that old, forgotten photograph.

What displeased me, however, was Sherlock's persistent disinclination to entrust his past to me holus bolus. If he did love me enough to admit me further into his life than even John Watson, then where could be the difficulty in that? Was I unfaithful? Was I loquacious? Was my discretion not to be relied on?

I felt a penetrating gaze in my neck and revolved to see who was watching me. That woman, for Christ's sake. What did she want from me? I accelerated my pace as I made for the churchyard's exit. Sherlock and I had a cab waiting outside. I would get in and abide his return, safe from the light snowfall. I did not reach the exit, though.

A sudden commotion at the far end of the yard made me halt and look back. A band of policemen had suddenly entered the enclosed area, preceded by a plainclothes man – Inspector Gregson, surely? I thought I knew him by his white face and flaxen hair. They seemed to be looking for someone, since they passed through the crowd quite regardless of the hustled people's protest and affronted complaints.

Their passage, however, was impeded by my husband, who stepped in Gregson's way, hands raised in a gesture of appeasement. Indeed, the policemen ceased to press forward and instead thronged around Holmes, who started an earnest and animated argument. There was much gesticulating of the hands, and I saw my man repeatedly shake his head, his face grave and austere.

"Miss Catherine Winter?"

A small hand was placed on my upper arm without a warning, and I jumped a little, turning and perceiving the woman who had been there, across the grave, in apparent observation of me.

"Tha's me", I replied spontaneously, but corrected myself: "At least, I used to go by that name. I'm called Holmes since my marriage."

I scrutinized the woman with some curiosity. She was older when seen from a short distance, a comely appearance, but there were some lines and even grey strands in her light brown, almost blonde hair. Probably, I had made a mistake in placing her among the Gruner girls; the Baron had always preferred companionship of unblemished youth and attractiveness.

"Of course, pray forgive me. So the papers said. Natasha always used your former name in her diary."

"Ye're her mother", I said surprised as the penny dropped and I suddenly recognized my late friend's soulful eyes and delicate cheekbones in the older woman's face. Tamara Walraven, neé Orlansky, resident in Gaunt Street, but formerly of Prague. Of course her daughter had told me all about her.

"I am", Mrs. Walraven confirmed, a little flustered and timid and forgetting to introduce herself in due form in spite of her doubtlessly impeccable manners. "Might I have a word, Mrs. Holmes?"

"Why…"

I craned my neck to glance back at where Sherlock was still arguing with the police. A new case, probably, but did they need to intercept him here instead of using the ordinary information channels? This was an entombment, for heaven's sake!

" – certainly", I agreed haughtily, for though I would have disdained every woman that would come and reveal herself as being Natasha's mother, I had some time to kill and curiosity enough. "What is it you wish to communicate?"

"My gratitude, Kitty", the woman blurted out before she regained her balance: "Do forgive me, that was too forward of me."

"Jus' a bit of a liberty", I returned camly; though I was white hot with rage inside.

This person! Here she came to ingratiate herself with me on the brink of her daughter's grave, a daughter she had done nothing to save from her ruin!

"Yes, quite quite. It is just that I have a feeling of knowing you intimately already…"

"A feeling I cannot claim to reciprocate", I replied; short-clipped. "An' I don't know whence you taike the presumption to think I would wish to prolong my acquaintance wiv you. Surely, there is no reason for me – "

"Oh, but you were her closest friend! I know it – know it from my poor Natasha's diary. She writes of you with such warmth of feeling…I would like you ever so much to let me get to know you better. You have been looking after her, these past years…"

"Yeah, an' that would 'ave been your duty, wouldn't it!" I exploded, my pent-up ire suddenly too strong to withhold. "You're her mother, dammit! Why could ye not provide fer yer daughter's most basic needs? It was your fault, if not entirely, then at least partially, that she was driven into this misery! Have you no qualms? Did yer conscience ne'er stir all these years through? D'ye come ter me to seek absolution from this shameful neglect? Well, I'll give it you on the day that hell freezes over!"

"Please, Kit – Mrs. Holmes!"

Small Mrs. Walraven was shaken with sobbing by the time I had got worked up into a proper fury, and though this did not make it subside, I momentarily ceased chiding her for her defaults.

"I have another daughter to think of! My husband is a wealthy and influential man. But this scandal would have destroyed us! Natasha had made her decision without our consent, we couldn't spoil our Roxana's chances of a respectable marriage…"

"So you sacrificed her sister?" I flared up, more enraged than ever. "Would it 'ave been too much, then, to accord Natasha some support, a small allowance? Some morsels of yer wealth? Yes, obviously it would 'ave been. You abandoned her, abandoned her fer makin' a mistaike…"

"She had her jewels", Mrs. Walraven muttered timidly. "I would have thought – "

"She wan't great in economy, and nobody could live on them sparklers forever!" I bit back angrily. "Me 'usband had ter provide for 'er cure an' housing, an' her fiancé 'ad to drag 'er through with the whole o' her daily expenses! You didn't know that, did you now? Oh, really!"

"If there had been an opportunity of giving her some – of seeing her occasionally – I would have been all for it!" Mrs. Walraven tried to defend herself. "But my husband would have none of it. He wouldn't allow…for Roxanna's sake…he feared Gruner would…can't you understand Mrs. Holmes? He loathed the man!"

"Natasha told me differently", I contradicted her coldly.

"It is true the fault was ours to introduce him into our household." Mrs. Walraven wrung her hands, entreating me to have sympathy. "He wasn't a friend of my husband's, though – just a partner in business. Mr. Walraven was furious when he found out what was going on behind his back. He banned Gruner from our home and forbade our daughters to ever see him again. Tasha didn't obey….what choice did we have? She might have become pregnant! Think of the disgrace!"

"I honestly 'ave no more to say t'ya, Mrs. Walraven", I replied with a level, but icy intonation. "Save that you would have been wiser in looking after yer daughters. If for a woman of you're an' their standing the disgrace cannot be borne, surely you ought not 'ave allowed 'em ter meet an adult male unsupervised. As far as I am concerned, it's you an' yer spouse that are to blame, certainly not Natasha."

And with these words I endeavoured to leave her, making for the exit and our cab. But my novel acquaintance was more tenacious than one would give her credit for, certainly more than her daughter had been.

"I see I can't ask for your friendship, Mrs. Holmes", she uttered, keeping apace with me till I surrendered and stood still. But maybe you'll allow me to recompense you for the costs my daughter caused you? Maybe there is something further I could do to express my gratitude?"

"I ain't out fer money", I shot back tersely; mortified that should be what she thought of me, what everybody seemed to think of me.

"Something we can do for your husband, then? I can see you'll be having a baby. We might ease the advance of your husband's career; afford your child an introduction to the best schools in the country. Mr. Walraven is an influential man – "

"So you said, marm", I sneered. "What a pity that precious influence of his could not be put to Natasha's advantage when she was still alive. Good day to you."

And I quit her for good by the gate, to return to Sherlock's side. He, however, apparently was not too much pleased to see me, for he shooed me aside when I approached him.

"Wait here Kitty! I'm done here presently – yes, in a minute, Gregson! Have patience man, I'm with you instantly. Kitty – "

He turned back at me and there was an odd look of concern in his agitated, bleary eyes. "Return to our cab and get in. Talk to nobody on the way, just tell the cabby to be ready and wait for me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sherlock", I answered hesitantly. "But what on earth – "

"Hush, no questions! Do as I tell you. I won't be long."

I felt I was dismissed. Sherlock crossed the yard and re-joined the police division headed by Inspector Gregson. I had an impression that they looked at him askance, disapproving somehow. But I didn't stop to wonder about that; just did my husband's bidding and retreated down the far end of the cemetery, past Watson and Mary who tried to talk to me and ask me what the matter was, past Mrs. Walraven also, who was too surprised by the vehemence of my gait to try and accost me again.

The hedge, the mourners and the weeping angels of stone in my back, I felt a little more at my ease. I requested the cabman, huddled in his heavy cloak on top of his vehicle, to be prepared for instant departure, and climbed in, thankful for the comparative warmth inside.

There was no need to wait long, for Sherlock was as good as his word. He came for the cab some ten minutes after me, slipped inside, and off we went, the hooves of the horses hitting the pavement at a quick pace.

"What was that about?" I enquired with some restraint, afraid to again strike the wrong note. "What did Gregson an' 'is coppers want from you?"

"They're investigating", he responded, but instead of looking at me, peered out of the window. "That is, they think they are."

"Investigating?" I frowned. "What?"

"Murder", he uttered. I noticed his hands inside the black kid leather gloves contracted and relaxed in nervous alternation. "The murder of your friend, Miss Orlansky."

"Murder?" I felt my eyeballs strain against their sockets, so astounded was I. "But that's risible! It was suicide!"

"I know that!" He spat, suddenly wild with fury. "If I and the Yard always were of one opinion, it would be a strange world indeed!"

"So…what is their suspicion founded on?" I wondered aloud. "The way I found her leaves little room for speculation, actually. Do they have their eye on someone in particular?"

"Yes."

He raised his hand to pas it through his hair with a trace of despair. Eventually, his gaze was redirected at my face.

"You."

**Hullo!**

**Liked that one? I admit, It's been scribbled down, kind of…Still, I like the idea of our couple in a new dangerous situation, and the opportunity was too good to be missed! Any suggestions what might follow? I have but a rough plan…**

**Love, Mrs. F**


	75. Chapter 75

Chapter seventy-five: After the Funeral

7th December 1887

"_That's why I would not love while I draw breath/ Such pain as this would make me grieve to death." Goethe's Faust_

My astonishment was beyond description. I even trust I laughed out loud at Sherlock's words.

"Me?"

"You'd be wise to listen", he snapped, and I came to reason within a second. The shock and the ordeal of the service had risen to my head; at least that was to be surmised. Here I was laughing, laughing with Natasha dead and her death imputed to me…

"But 'ow?" I spluttered.

"The police assume an involuntary action on the part of Miss Orlansky. Gregson maintains a theory of forced suicide, in the face of a much more unpleasant and violent demise."

"'ow could that be?" Stunned, I shook my head. "'er door was locked on the inside. The windows were shuttered – "

"Apparently, there is a second exit which connects the flat with the neighbouring, unoccupied apartment. It is what I learn from Gregson, mind - as your husband, there is but a slim chance for me to ever be admitted to the scene of Miss Orlansky's death and come to my own conclusions. As it is, whoever might have chosen to bring about her death in an unsuspicious fashion might have locked the main entrance to her flat, forced her to end her life, and vanished by the rear exit. It is altogether possible, if not congruent with the facts as we know them – "

"But why me? It seems nonsensical. I did me best ter straighten out 'er life for 'er, not terminate it!"

"A certain letter is said to furnish a motive", Sherlock drawled, looking at me with a hint of unease. "_Did_ you write to your friend some days prior to her passing, Kitty?"

"I did – yes – but I do not see – "

"According to all that I've been told, there has been mention of…my own person…in the said epistle." He shifted a little in his seat. "I did not know your misapprehension had induced you to take such steps. Had you only consulted me beforehand…"

"I was afraid ter raise the subject wiv ya", I whispered, gazing straight into his eyes. "I was convinced ya 'ad fallen in love wiv Natasha, so I asked for her un'erstanding if I couldn't let 'er meet you anymore. It was on'y that an' nothing more…there was no implication o' malice…or even ill-feeling…no threatening on my part…"

"I believe you." My husband reached out for my hand and pressed it, briefly, but with emotion. "You may be inclined toward a certain violence of temper, but the fault of jealousy has never been yours. The police, however, do not appreciate the fact. They interpret your letter in such a way as to make your assumed jealousy into a valid motive for you to drive Miss Orlansky to this desperate act."

"It is absurd." Again and again, I shook my head in my incredulity. "I cannot accept it. It's the most bizarre delusion."

"It is evidence enough to trigger a criminal investigation", Sherlock reminded me. "That letter was a very foolish, very dangerous mistake, Kitty."

"But how did they get 'old of it?" I burst forth in my exasperation. "It was in Natasha's post when I came to call on 'er that day an' when I returned next day wiv Dr. Levhin, it was gone! I - " The torrent of my speech ceased for a second as the scales fell from my eyes.

"Betsy!" I groaned, relapsing into my seat from which I had half risen, eager as I was. "She was hangin' out at the plaice when first I came. She knew I 'ad written when I betrayed my surprise ter see the letter still there. She must 'ave ta'en it."

"And who exactly is this Betsy?" he enquired sharply, his eyes squinted with inward tension.

"A friend o' ours – well, not actually a friend. A friend o' Natasha's. More loike a foe o' mine", I explained confusedly. "One o' the Baron's girls, she was. She bears me a personal grudge, so it is quite possible she'd use the first opportunity to get one o'er me. I can't tell though."

"Did you talk?"

"We 'ad a brief chat, yes. Anyhow, loike I said, we ain't on a friendly footing, so there's no need fer you to fink I'd blab – if that is what ya fink", I returned snippily.

"It is of no importance what I think. The question is; did this woman have a tangible motive, an opportunity, and the required craftiness to recognize the chance for your incrimination?"

I hesitated. "On the first two points, rest assured she did. As to the craftiness…she is scheming, designing by nature, yes."

"What do you know about her?" Sherlock pressed me.

"Nothing much…Cribb's the name, Elizabeth Cribb. When I first knew 'er, she dwelt someplaice in Hounslowe…but that was years ago."

"How long exactly?"

"We became acquainted at the Baron's house, when she still was 'is mistress, an' I the model. The Baron dropped her when he became interested in me..." I blushed as I perceived the topic was exceedingly disagreeable to my lover. His brow had clouded, and he had lowered his eyes with something akin to embarrassment.

"…so that would have been three years ago", I concluded hastily. "I've seen 'er a couple a times since; she 'ad ta'en ter calling on Natasha some months prior to 'er end."

"Why, do you think?"

"Well, I s'ppose they 'ad some kind a friendly relations."

"You know Kitty…" Sherlock crossed his legs, hands searching his mourning garb for a smoke, "it strikes me as odd that this girl should entertain such antipathy against you, but want to befriend Miss Orlansky, who, after all, was her opponent too where the Baron is concerned."

"They were simultaneous playmates", I explained, awkwardly. "The Baron sometimes had 'em. He…liked keeping _ménages_ of that sort."

"I can imagine", Sherlock returned drily. "I only wonder whether Miss Cribb's lack of jealousy toward Miss Orlansky can be made plausible by the fact that, unlike you, she did not oust her from what she apparently regarded as her rightful place. I've keenly studied the psychology of jealous women. It doesn't seem to fit. It may be this Betsy did not regard your friend as a serious competitor; however it seems quite unlikely she would go out of her way to be friends with a former rival. Why would she do that? No, no, my dear girl. There's something else behind it."

"What, then?" My mind was utterly befuddled by his clear reasoning and the overload of questions asked me.

Sherlock took a deep draught from his cigarette. I coughed as the narrow cabin filled with smoke, and swiftly lowered the window. "Somehow, I see the Baron in all of this. It is not entirely out of the question this girl is again living with him, is it?"

"O' course not, but I can furnish no information. Sherlock, I'm so exhausted", I complained wearily. "Could ya give me jus' a minute ter digest all a this? You re'lly o'erstrain me."

"Overstrain you? _I _overstrain you?" Sherlock flipped his stub out of the window, suddenly testy. "My good child, this is a murder investigation we are dealing with, and I am trying to save your remarkably vacant head! Gregson and his men would have arrested you on the spot today if it hadn't been for my intervention, are you aware of that? I presumed it wouldn't be too much to ask if you tried to remember things that might avail you at the trial!"

"Arrest?" I screeched anxiously. "Trial? I done nothing!"

"Of course you didn't, but people don't know that, do they?" he bellowed, wild with anger, but hardly did I notice. What he had said about my head had conjured up in me the one great fear of humankind – the loss of dear, precious life!

That anguish was strong in me. There are people to whom life is just second of importance – like Natasha, who forfeited it voluntarily, without need. To me, this was unfathomable. However dismal, dire, painful and unbearable life might become – I had a profound certainty it would ever be holy and inviolable to me. Thus I experienced a surge of panic washing through body and mind – I could not die! I couldn't stand it, no, no!

It had been different in the Ripper's cellar, when Sherlock's life had been at stake. That was the one thing to come before mine, the only thing more deserving of protection. But to be deprived of it as a punishment I had done nothing to provoke, to let it be taken by my own mortal kindred, with nothing I could do to defend it! The idea was not to be borne.

"Oh darling!" I threw myself across the gap between our seats and clutched his lapels. "I don't want to be dead, and lowered into the damp grave loike Natasha! You can't let 'em! Please, say you will protect me! I don't want to die! I don't want to die!"

"Oh, stop this moronic wailing, I beg of you", he huffed, and, unmoved by my tears, shoved me back into my seat. "Compose yourself. Do you think they would hang a pregnant woman?"

"I don't wanna go back to goal, neither", I exclaimed, my second worst apprehension presenting itself to me.

"We shall find our means to prevent it if you'd just stop raving and start listening to me. There now, that's better. Let's try to be sensible, shall we?"

With a sigh I sat back, my head lolling against the cabin panel. The day had drained me of my energy, and there was a keen desire to sleep, sleep for days on end. The tides of my anxiety were somewhat becalmed and lying low now; still I was not at peace and had to satisfy myself with this shallow repose, just sitting there and hearkening to Sherlock's directions.

"We have just another two minutes before we reach Baker Street, and it will be necessary for me to return to the graveyard as soon as I've dropped you off. I want you to go to your room at once and remain there until I come back. Tell Mrs. Hudson she is not to answer the door in any case. You must admit nobody; you hear me, nobody save Watson or me. The Yard will probably send somebody around to fetch you, but as long as there is no warrant – and Gregson has issued none so far – we are quite safe from its agents. Do you understand?"

"Yes", I replied wearily.

"Excellent. I will try my best with Gregson meanwhile. He is a reasonable man, and god knows, I have given him reasons aplenty both for faith and loyalty, otherwise he would hardly have allowed me to take you away from the spot. But luckily, I can vouch for you, and that will suffice for the moment."

He fell silent, and only the rattle of the horses and the carriage was to be heard for some instants, until we drew up in front of the house at 221b. I half expected him to dismiss me mutely, but once again, he surprised me by an impulse which led him to cup my face with his hands and kiss my forehead.

"Now don't worry my girl, we shall set matters right. And please forget what you thought about Miss Orlansky and me – it was a deception. I have striven all my life to skirt the pitfalls of tender emotion, and I may safely congratulate myself to have failed in the case of only one woman."

"Yes, Sherlock", I replied, slightly trembling under the unwonted caress. "It was fatuitous of me to assume anything different."

"A little silly, perhaps. Unsubstantiated, at any rate." He put a discreetly consoling hand to my shoulder, and I reveled in the chaste fondling, remembering the first time he had done this to me in a cab.

_Flashback…_

"_Why Kitty, why?"_

_Holmes turned to me, having signaled the cabman to drive off. I was still clutching the neck of my partly opened dress, my head averted, shamefaced. _

"_Why did Gruner treat you so?"_

"_Because…" I sniffled, tear-stained not giving a damn about my lady-likeness. "Oh no, I can't tell you, Mr. 'olmes!"_

_His tone was gentle but assertive as he insisted: "You must, this instant. You tell me he collects women, what do you mean by that?"_

_He was asking me _that_! I thought I would die of the shame, but brought myself to ejaculate: "It's a book he has!"_

"_A book?" Mr. Holmes seemed to pale a little. He, too, felt uncomfortable, but his professionalism retained the upper hand. _

_I sobbed. "Brown leather, with a lock. And his coat of arms in gold on it. Oh, I can't speak of it!" My shudders overwhelmed me for an instant, but Mr. Holmes painstakingly stuck to his guns. _

"_He keeps a record of his women?" I was prompted, and I nodded as a confirmation. _

"_We're all in there. Photographs – names – details – everything about us." My companion slightly raised his chin, and I realized how what I reported was exceedingly distasteful to him. Yet I carried on: "He tried to make me read it while he – " But here my courage failed me, my sense of decency prevailed over my wish to be detached and precise. "Oh no! I can't!"_

_A sensation of pleasurable shock ran swiftly through me as his arm gingerly encircled my shoulders and his hand was placed on my right arm. He was embracing me! Mr. Holmes embraced me!_

_His features remained unaltered, as if ignorant of the inconceivable thing his limb just did. "When you refused?" he demanded to know, with an even voice._

_I do not think he had the remotest notion of the fracas in my mind, and I did my best to ensure it. _Pull yourself together! _I chided myself, furiously. Was it the turbulent times and the continual strain on my nerves, or had I become a mere vessel of physical chemistry, without control over thought and sentiment?!_

"_He went berserk", I replied, unable to keep the whiny sound I detested out of my voice. "He ran outta the room. I was trying to dress." Holmes' hand slid off my arms, I noticed in passing. Presumably, I had myself become distasteful to him by this implication. It didn't matter. I had to persevere, though my account became somewhat incoherent._

"'_e came back in minutes…bottle…I was 'alf naked…he threw it straight at me!"_

_There was the tiniest of pauses. Then, Mr. Holmes resumed: "Where is this book?"_

_Of course, I had a more or less distinct idea where the Baron kept it. But could I bring myself to reveal it to Mr. Holmes? With all of his cleverness, he would surely be able to lay his hands upon it. And then, he might find the page titled "Kitty Winter", and see my photographs, read all the things the Baron had made me do…._

"_I don't know", I asserted blatantly, but he was not taken in. _

"_Think!" he barked; no longer the consolatory friend but an impatient interrogator. _

"_No! No!" I howled, terrified at the possibilities which unfolded in my mind. _

"_The study? The bedroom?" Holmes urged me, pitiless._

"_It's been more than a year that I've been there!" I defended myself tearfully, but slowly appreciated that my position was an unsustainable one. _

"_Then you can remember Kitty, think!" ,he pushed, and my head flew around aggressively. _

"_In 'is study!" _

_Nothing more was said during a second. I sat still, pondered bitterly. "Back at the bureau", I added finally to make my defeat more complete. But surprisingly, my openness was rewarded._

_Mr. Holmes re-situated his hand on my right shoulder. I hung my head, certain about the way he would henceforth consider me, but nonetheless cherishing this transitory show of vague fondness._

"_Thank you Kitty. Thank you", he murmured. I think his nose briefly brushed my hair as he inclined his head toward me, and I gasped violently, so pleased and startled was I. He seemed to put it down to my exasperation, crybaby that I was, or at least abstained from any comment._

"Thank you darling", I muttered, lpacing a swift peck on his cheek. Disembarking from the vehicle, my lips still gently tingled with the sensation of his clean shaven skin on mine.

**Hi there!**

**Sooooo…this is why the police think Kitty might be the murderess of her friend. A pretty mess to be in! And what can Holmes do to clear her of the suspicion, if they won't let him do his research? **

**As always, let me hear what you think! I love to get your impressions…and steal your ideas, of course ;-)**

**Love, Mrs. Forsyte**


	76. Chapter 76

Chapter seventy-six: Adieu

7th December 1887

"_When he's not here, my grave is near/ the world is all a bitter gall." Goethe's Faust_

Despite my occasional erratic capriciousness of action and sentiment, there were situations in which Sherlock could absolutely rely on my compliance. I followed his instructions to the letter, forbid Mrs. Hudson to admit any caller and repaired to my room, waiting for the police to come around, which they did shortly afterwards.

Ginger Jack and I met their shouted demands for admission with stolid silence, and when after what felt like ages they appeared to have cried themselves hoarse, they withdrew – to my unutterable relief.

I sat on my bed, patting the tomcat and wondering what was about to happen. I could scarce imagine anyone I knew to be mean enough to bring such evil over me willingly, not even Betsy. But there was always the Baron. He had already seemed the destroyer of my life at one point; why should history not repeat itself as was its wont?

I considered the various damages done to my predecessors and successors: Broken hearts, limbs and necks, scorched hides, cut off heads of hair, abuse and social exclusion were only some of the horrid consequences to a liaison with the miscreant that I had knowledge of.

The fact that I had once clung to him with all my heart seemed more and more improbable – the more so when thinking about what I shared with Sherlock, what we were to share with our little boy or girl in the future. There was such a huge chasm in between my two lovers that it seemed hardly conceivable. My husband had become such a noble creature in my eyes, imperfect, yes, but in comparison to Gruner…

I stopped pondering, cocking my ears. Had they returned? There surely was somebody down at the door, I could hear Mrs. Hudson move her agile short stump of a body through the entrance hall to anticipate the intruder. Some fearful minutes passed, during which I listened eagerly. Another second, however, brought me certainty that no immediate danger threatened; the quick rush up the stairs was too well known to me to be mistaken.

"Sherlock…?"

He burst into my room without knocking, which was most unusual for him.

"Pack your things", he ordered, a queer strain to his tone. "No need to take all that plunder, a few chosen items will suffice."

A frown etched into my brow. "Sherlock, what - ?"

"And hurry", he ordered imperiously. "I will explain while you gather your effects."

I had learned so long ago to trust his judgement and to rely on his decisions that I did not make an objection to his less than suave inflection, but set forth to do as he told me. I emptied out my closet and my writing desk, stowing everything away in the box I had used when seeking refuge with Annie. Sherlock was talking the while, but staunchly refused my offer to sit on the bed, and paced up and down in my room instead like some wild beast on the prowl.

"The Yard insists there be tangible reasons for suspicion in your case, Kitty. From my point of view, it seems clear they will try to initiate a lawsuit against you, based on indications. I expect my presumption proved correct and you were called upon by the police whilst I was away?"

"I followed yer advice", I replied, cramming muddled heaps of laundry into my case, "so they bogged off after twenty minutes or so."

"They'll come again, and next time with a warrant. You're not safe here. Once they've got you, I can't guarantee for the progress of the trial. I suppose it would be no great difficulty in itself to prove your innocence, but as a biased party, you will understand my word would count as nothing. I wouldn't even be heard in court."

"Surely yer reputation speaks fer itself?" I asked anxiously, but he only shook his head in regret.

"You ignore the juridical principles. My only hope now is to act through an agent, but that will mean employing a private detective myself; and he will as likely as not investigate along his own chosen line."

With trembling, sweaty hands, I closed the lid of my box and fastened the leather straps around it. "So, where will we go?"

"_We _won't."

I met his stern, severe gaze, and started when I fathomed its meaning. "You – you're not sending me away, are ya?"

Sherlock sighed. "Kitty, don't you understand at all? It is of the utmost importance to get you away. There is no secure place for you in England. You'll go abroad – I think your brother and sister's place in Ireland will be safest. I, however, will have to remain in situ, to observe the turns of events and interfere if necessary. It is not that I send you away because I want it. I must, or otherwise you'll be in the claws of justice, and I left without much of a chance of wresting you away from them."

And his gaze was so eloquent with love and sincerity that I could not but believe him.

"My dearest", I whispered, sinking into his arms that opened readily enough, but released me before a minute had passed.

"There now, you mustn't tarry too long. I have asked Gregson or some hours' delay in issuing the warrant – and compromised him gravely in doing so. When those hours have elapsed, there will be police officers looking for you in every harbor that has ships departing from the country."

"So time is pressing?" I asked rhetorically. "So I am not e'en allowed ter say me good-byes t'ya, ignorant as I am of the time when we shall meet again?"

"Ignorant you must go. But you may still say good-bye", he murmured, his hands delving into my hair which had come undone in the haste of getting ready. Our mouths met, and we kissed softly, cherishing each other's sweetness until, all too soon, he liberated himself of me with gentle force.

"I can't accompany you", he explained quietly. "The house may be under surveillance. Watson, bless his soul, has volunteered to see you safely to Bristol. From thence you are to take the steamer bound for Kinsale. I shall wire to your brother, so that you'll be fetched from the quay."

"Alright", I muttered reluctantly. "But what about – "

I suddenly became aware of a commotion in the house; one of the maids screamed hysterically, and I seized Sherlock's arm in a panic when the rattle f a Brougham outside became audible, and somebody entered by the front door.

"Sweet Lord! They're back!"

To my amazement, my husband chuckled. "Most certainly not. This is just Mrs. Hudson having a heart attack."

"Mrs. 'udson - ?"

I understood nothing, barring the fact that it was not so, for any mishap to our worthy landlady would not induce the most heartless of persons to chuckle. What was planned became a little clearer when I discerned 's voice downstairs, and Sherlock grabbed his long, neutral coloured dressing gown from my rocking chair (forgotten there on one of his nightly visits to my chamber) and wrapped me up in it.

"Cover your hair with some sort of shawl - nothing too fashionable. That will do very well. You are about the same height as she, and if all goes according to plan, Watson will take a wrong turning accidentally on his way to the hospital."

He bend forward to kiss me on my forehead, and in spite of my enormeous belly, hidden beneath the dressing gown, and the grey scarf around my head that gave me the look of a scarecrow, that kiss made me feel the most beautiful girl on earth.

"Good-bye, Kitty, and be brave. You are one plucky little woman."

"Adieu", I breathed when the doctor called me from downstairs: "Kitty, come quickly! Mrs. Hudson has taken ill!"

One last, quick touch of my hand on his cheek, and I was gone, slipping down the stairs and into the landlady's private quarters, where I was expected by the doctor and herself, as chipper as could be except for a certain fidgety nervousness.

"Oh, Mrs. Holmes! Oh, Mrs. Holmes, madam!"

There was not much more to be got out of her. Watson was, if equally serious, far more contained. "I've sent the page to the pharmacy, and the maids on similar errands. We must be gone ere they are back. Are you quite ready, Kitty?"

"Me luggage", I spluttered, rather startled by the development of things and the pace which to keep I felt obliged. "What'll become o' that?"

"We must leave it. Young Wiggins and his band will convey it to Bristol for you. At present, we can't afford to arouse suspicion. Now, if you will…?"

He indicated a large, quite comfortable looking stretcher on the floor of Mrs. Hudson's bedroom.

"But will nobody perceive the exchange?" I objected solicitously as they made me lie down on it.

"Not to worry, with the blanket over your body and this shawl to disguise your head, nobody'll be able to tell the difference from the distance. Only do not move, and keep your face down!"

"Very well", I mumbled, half choked by the blanket which they tucked in around me. "Au revoir, Mrs. 'udson!"

The aged woman gave an anxious smile as she looked down upon me. "Au revoir madam, and may I also wish you bon voyage."

"Where is that infernal rapscallion?" Watson ranted, bereft of his customary gentle temper.

"Here, sir! Very sorry, sir."

It seemed to me a bizarre congregation that was held next to my landlady's bed when young Wiggins was added to our number, stumbling into the room with his cap in his hand and one of his filthy associates at his elbow. Together they lifted the stretcher on which I lay, following Dr. Watson on his way outside.

I dared not move a limb and kept my face down as they had told me, but from the corner of my eye I think I had a glimpse of Sherlock, standing on the top landing to witness my clandestine, and, truth be told, rather ludicrous exit.

Somewhere out of doors I guessed from the wobbly, hobnailed handling of my stretcher that the fellows were lifting me into the rear of Watson's hansom.

"Caution, boys!" I heard him shout. "Be gentle with her, she's an old lady. There we are. Giddy up!"

I had never known Watson to possess such stores of energy and determination, though of course I had always found him a steadfast and useful companion to my husband. Now, however, he was on his own, and though all I could do was lie in the dark, shaken to and fro on the cobble stones of the pavement, I had a sample both of his skill as a breakneck driver and of the cunning which he employed talking a police control into letting him pass when they stopped us to enquire after reasons for this antinomian speed.

Keeping it up, we soon were out of town, as could be told from the softer impact of hooves and wheels on the damp ground of the country road. Once we had to halt, obviously because there was a problem with the harness, but the doctor fixed that, too, and used the enforced break to look in on me in the cargo area of the van.

"Is all well with you, Kitty? Do you require – anything?"

"A drink would be welcome", I admitted, climbing out of the vehicle with the big red cross on it and stretched my legs with a moan. "Ouch!"

"Take a draught, then", John said, passing me a flat silver pocket flask and sitting down on the loading space to light his pipe. I put my hands to the small of my back and arched it, for it ached just as bad as my legs, stiff from the prolonged inactivity.

The burial was over two or three hours now, and the land around us was lost in the oncoming darkness. Our break had only lasted a couple of minutes, but already it was only due to the glow of his pipe that I could only discern John's face in the dusk.

"Do we 'ave far ter go yet?"

He puffed a beautiful ring of smoke into the air that curled mysteriously until it dissolved. His loyal, earnest eyes directed at me, he replied: "Another hour will bring us to Bristol, which will give you time to board the _Star of Aden_. Before the break of dawn, you shall be in Ireland – and beyond the reach of British jurisdiction."

**Halloa!**

**Sooooooo – next chapter will see us in Ireland, and Kitty reunited with her family! But what will Sherlock do, tied up as his hands are with regard to the investigation? And how much does Baron Gruner really have to do with Natasha's death? **

**I'd love to hear your guesses!**

**All the best, Mrs. F**


	77. Chapter 77

Chapter seventy-seven: Tight Places

7th December 1887

"_What use is flight? They lie in wait for me." Goethe's Faust_

John had actually overrated our pace a wee bit; it was pitch dark by the time we approached the great seaport upon the Avon. My situation had been relieved in that I was no longer forced to hold out in the dank, stuffy cargo room of the Red Cross van, but could sit in the coach box next to my companion. A thick horse rug shielded me scantily against the frost, visible in the breath of our horses that curled in white plumes into the cold night air.

We talked little, John and I; and nothing hindered my thoughts from wandering perpetually back to whom we had left behind. What would Sherlock be doing now, what would he try to clear up the terrible misapprehension which I had fallen prey to? Was he quite safe?

I guess my pauciloquent fellow passenger's mind was occupied by similar reflections, though he did not let on about it. He disturbed my anxious musings only when the clatter of the horse shoes suddenly slowed down on the cobble stone road.

"What's this?"

Lights appeared out of the gloom in front of us, and I heard the sound of male voices.

"That awready Bristol?" I yawned, but stopped short when Watson reigned in the horses brusquely, a tense frown etched into his forehead.

"Pull up to the right!" A man called out from the bitter cold darkness, and I could dimly discern his form on the road some feet ahead of us, hand raised to prevent our progress. Another police control!

The quick glance John flashed me was sufficient to inform me of his nervousness as he obeyed and made the horses draw our van to the right hand kerbside.

"Good evening, gentlemen." The doctor seemed very composed again as two more uniformed men emerged from the black night next to our craft. I am convinced they could detect nothing of the disquiet which I knew prevailed in his mind. "Some complaint as to my driving, I take it? As you can see for yourselves, I am perfectly sober."

"That's alright, sir."

The third official, obviously the head of the division, stepped up in front and lifted his hand to the head of one o our horses, which was tossed and shaken with the scare of being delayed so abruptly.

"You going into Bristol?"

"Yes, indeed." Watson hesitated for the twinkling of an eye ere he added: "My wife and I have come all the way from London, and the night is an uncomfortable one. I would ask you therefore to hasten this interruption to an end, so that we may proceed into town."

"Of course."The man ran us over with a swift, keen glance, and I was very uneasy to behold the pistol and truncheon in his belt. "Can you identify yourself?"

"Well…I really don't know…" Watson started rummaging in his knapsack from whence he had taken the pocket flask. I bit my lip in a sudden surge of panic. There, that's it. They knew. They had been informed.

Less for certainty and more for something to say because I felt the gaze of the auxiliary officers linger on me with curiosity, I enquired: "You are looking for someone, I assume?"

One of the two seemed ready to answer, but a stern glance from the chief officer silenced him. "A rapist", he curtly confirmed in the stead of his subaltern.

"Oh." Uncertain whether to be relieved or to mistrust the man's sly demeanour, I observed John who had found his calling card amongst his other effects, and handed it over to the policeman.

"Here you are."

"Uhuh." A brief glance over the slip of paper, then the man raised his eyes at us. "Dr. J. Watson. I am sorry, but this means I shall have to arrest you. Dr. John Watson is the precise name we were given for our manhunt."

"Excuse me?!" John's eyes almost popped out of their sockets with honest indignation.

"This is an outrage!" I vociferated, but at the same time a tight, cold hand seemed to clamp around my heart and hold it fast. This was the Baron's doing! There was no escape from the man!

"Please refrain from resistance", the officer demanded in a tone half earnest, half bored. "I assure you, it'll earn you nothing."

"What an unheard of affront! I wish to speak to your superior authorities!" John ranted, but I interrupted him, a weak tiny flame of an idea being kindled in my mind.

"What is put to our charge?"

"I told you, madam", the police officer droned, "We are on the lookout for the rapist Dr. John Watson– "

"I am – not a rapist", Watson stammered, blanched of face and almost unable of speech in his mortification.

"And neither am I, quite conspicuously", I cried, following my spontaneous intuition.

The policemen stifled a laugh.

"Madame, believe us the charge extends only to Dr. Watson, not to you", their head tried to becalm me, but I believe I startled them all in replying:

"But _I_ amDr. Watson!"

"Ex…cuse me?" The man's arrogant attitude seemed to dissipate within a moment, ceding predominance to an outstandingly sheepish expression. Watson, next to me, appeared no less baffled.

I hurried to assume a certain self-confident superiority. "You heard me, officer. Pray where were you reared? Under a rock? My good man, we're living in a modern age. Nowadays, there is no objection among civilized people against a woman being trained as a physician…"

John inhaled almost inaudibly. His fingers pinched mine sharply behind our backs. The head of the patrol was temporarily muted, but one of the auxiliaries exclaimed: "What nonsense! Don't attempt to put sand in our eyes. Your name most certainly is not John Watson, is it?"

"What's this talk of a John Watson?" I returned with due pretence of impatience. "The 'J' is short for Janet."

The auxiliary retained a highly incredulous expression, his brow curling into a doubtful arch. His superior, however, had recovered his mien of competent courtesy.

"I beg your pardon, madam, if there has been a mistake on our part. All the same, I must ask you whether you carry any papers to corroborate your identities."

"Certainly not!" Watson was his own master once again. Convincingly, though I could discern the faint outline of my passport in his breast pocket, he declared: "Just passing from one county into the other, we did not deem it necessary to take our papers. We did not anticipate being delayed like this, as if we had transgressed the borders of a police state – "

"What is your business in Bristol?" the man asked, unimpressed with John's harangue.

"I've been summoned to the hospital", I fibbed animatedly. "A serious case. Most urgent."

"Are you a specialist, then?"

"I am. It's a severe case of – " I closed my eyes and tried to recall some of the longwinded scientific terms my husband was fond of using. " – _delectatio morosa_."

"_Delectatio morosa_?" The auxiliary asked skeptically.

"A horrible case. The worst you've ever seen", I confirmed gravely. "It is vital for me to arrive there within the next hour, or all help may be too late for the poor wretch."

Watson's jaw had tightened perceptibly, but he said nothing to contradict me. The officers scrutinized me extremely askance.

"From which hospital came the summons?" The head policeman finally desired to know. I faltered, but my supposed spouse came to my aid.

"The Royal Bristol Infirmary, officer."

"Very good – Mr. Watson."

He was uncertain how to address the man at my side, I realized with a certain degree of amusement. This feeling, however, subsided quickly as the policemen gathered some yards off the road to hold council in low tones. I grasped John's hand, partly in accordance with our story and partly for comfort. The police, at any rate, returned within an instant.

"Maybe you ought not to work in your condition?" the head officer suggested lightly.

"It's an emergency!" I replied, a little breathless. "We're wasting time."

"Very well." The man sighed a little. "You may proceed."

"Really?" I found my mouth wide open with surprise. On such an easy escape I had not dared to reckon anymore. Why, bless you sir! My humble thanks to you. The sufferer will, no doubt, include you in his prayers…"

"We shall give you an escort", the officer cut me short in a tone that had lost some of its former suavity. "To see that you're safe", he added when I traded glances with Watson.

They did not buy our story! I would have liked to protest, but seeing that Watson refrained from it, I had not the courage to do so. We were found out, finished! It was as simple as that.

Meek and mute I observed Watson taking up the reigns again, and we slowly glided back on the road while the police patrol mounted their own vehicle parked a little further off.

"By cripes, doctor! I'm afeared tis the end. I cannot conduct a medical what's-the-word, you know that!"

"I wouldn't let you, either", Watson replied calmly, gazing ahead with a straight face. "Speak lower, and don't look back."

I reclined in my seat with exasperation, painfully aware of our followers in the obscurity.

"What are we ter do, then? There'll be no case o' thingamabob at the hospital when we arrives there!"

"Yes, I have so far grasped the nature of our problem, thank you", he replied edgily, maybe more at patience's end than I had ever seen him.

"I'm so sorry, doctor!" Raising both my hands to my face, I began to cry bitterly. "Now you're 'ere, demeaned as a rapist by my fault, an' the coppers are about ter nab us, an' I won't be seeing Sherlock e'er again, 'cept through a line o' bars!"

"Calm yourself, I beg you! It is useless now to regret our situation. What we should do is the question to ponder, and I dare say your outrageous lie gave us at least some time to do exactly this."

"D'ye fink so?" I lowered my hands again, considering his words. "Golly, doctor, it was a pretty good idear, wan't it?"

"Indeed." Watson gave me a tight little smile that had an uncanny resemblance to that of his closest friend. "Neglecting the fact that you ascribed to your imagined patient the defect of brooding constantly on impure fantasies, you did rather well. Luckily, none of the fellows in our back appears to know his Horace or Pliny."

"Why, brag an' bounce! Is that what it means?" I gasped, stricken with the sheer audacity of my tergiversation, and the good fortune that had so far granted us impunity.

"It is. Now, if you would kindly refrain from crying and raving, maybe we can keep up the illusion for a little longer."

We had now reached the Bristol outskirts, and were travelling on dim lit roads that were little frequented. Despite Watson's admonition, I craned my neck and screwed my eyes so as to catch a glimpse of what was going on behind us. However, all I found was that the police hansom was following us with a silent, doggedly perseverance.

oooOOOooo

Baron Gruner dismissed the rapporteur with a malicious gloating in his eyes. So, the false warrant against Dr. Watson had been issued by Hopkins, the Baron's own man in the force. He reclined in his easy chair, one leg crossed over the other, fingers playing with the costly golden fountain pen, his latest acquisition from Hatton Garden.

Of course he was aware that the charge had no substance and would break down at closer inspection, but he had little doubt that wherever the doctor was, Kitty Winter would not be far. That man Holmes had not left his flat all day, he had satisfied himself as to that. Any delegation of his would naturally go to Watson, there could be no doubt of that. Ergo, if the woman's detention order was held back for some reason, it was the only way to delay her in her flight.

Flight! What an idea! Baron Gruner laughed softly, melodiously. It was utterly futile to fly from his justified revenge. He had told her she would pay for what she had done, and now the hour had come. In a brief touch of anger, he raised his hand to feel the scorched tissue of his cheek. The cursed witch! He would see her in the docks yet, her and that infernal brat in her womb with her, if possible.

Betsy had done good work; he had to admit that, spying out the exact circumstances of the loony Orlansky girl's death. The complaint to the police had been mainly her idea. Still, he wondered whether she did not know rather too much about his doings. Maybe it would be better if…

"You have called, sir?"

His ancient, venerable butler answered the short, impatiently broken toll of his bell with ever the same immovable reliability.

"You must send for the two gentlemen I used to employ", Gruner demanded pensively, rising from his chair to stand before the window front. "You know who I mean. It occurs to me you used to refer to them as 'persons', and, between you and me, they deserve no other denomination. They are to wait in the kitchen."

"Very good sir."

The butler withdrew soundlessly, and Gruner stood peering out into his dark, but splendid garden, stroking his chin with a single finger.

**Ha! So, there are yet some difficulties to surmount for poor Kitty. The Baron is trying to hunt her down, and he won't spare Watson in the attempt! Let's see what Sherlock can do about it…shall we? ;-) **

**All the best, Mrs. F**


	78. Chapter 78

Chapter seventy-eight: Godspeed

_7th December 1887_

„_Words have been interchanged enough/ let me at least see action, too!"_

_Goethe's Faust_

The main road of Bristol, populated regardless of the hour, seemed endless to me. Despite the noisy traffic washing around our rickety Red Cross van, I was ever aware of the presence of the police, never separated from us by more than two cart lengths. Hitherto I had waited patiently, waited for the doctor to announce he had made some decision. He offered none, however, and in the end, I could take it no more.

"Coul'n't we jus' try an' scarper off?" I suggested fervidly. "Soon they'll discover we ain't what we pretends ter be, an' then we'd find ourselves in a pretty mess!"

Watson shook his head ever so slightly. He, too, was captured in constant consciousness of our pursuers.

"Not at the pace the traffic is moving. It's sheer impossible."

"On our plates, then."

"No! They'd catch us, what with your condition and my leg is plainly inevitable, and then we'd face a pretty mess indeed."

"But we can't continue loike this!" I began to panic. "They'll arrest us an' then they'll send us back ter London – "

"Kitty!" John interrupted. His glance travelled swiftly in my direction though he kept his face straight, his head unmoved. "It is vital that we get you on this boat tonight. No, do not protest. You need to go alone. We're sure to get an opportunity so you can slip off the van unseen – create some diversion, if necessary. At any rate, you must get aboard that boat. I shall proceed, and by the time the police realize I'm alone, you will have disappeared in the crowd."

I peered at him from the side, as appalled as possible lest he insist on his inacceptable suggestion.

"John, ya couldn't! Them fellers taike ya fer a rapist. Ya'll be in huge trouble…"

"No, no. It's not I they want, child. Whoever is behind all of this, he wants to deter you from making the boat."

He carefully steered our vehicle around the bend, which made us vanish from sight for a second.

"Take this."

Watson slipped one hand into his breast pocket and produced my passport, which he handed out to me clandestinely. "Your ticket is inside."

"No! I can't." Tears started to prick in my eyes. "They'd put the charge on ya, sully yer name in public. You can't o this fer me. What'd Mary say?"

"Don't concern yourself. At the very least, they won't have a rapist hanged on the spot, besides of which I'm sure Holmes will apply all his cunning to my cause once we've got you safely out of the country."

"There must be another way."

"There is not."

"But if they 'ave ya stand in Court! Taike me word fer it, there's nofink more awful save gaol itself."

"It won't come to that. And even if, I'm equipped with every attribute to make a favourable impression on the Jury, am I not?"

Astonished at the humour which underlay his words in spite of the situation, I lifted my head to look at him.

"You certainly are. Nobody could argue about tha'. Married academic, good reputation, clear record 'n all that, but still I don't like it."

"My dear Kitty. The only thing you ought to worry about is not to hurt yourself in the descent from the van."

"I sure won't." Urged by an impulse, I seized his arm. "Oh John, I'm so frightened!"

"You needn't be. It'll be fine. You'll see your old home before long."

Watson cautiously patted my arm, all the while straining to keep our pursuers at a safe distance.

"Thank ya, thank ya fer ever'thing you've done. Ye're a brave man, John."

I insecurely fumbled with my skirts to get the passport securely stowed away. "A brave man an' the truest o' friends. Please give me lover ter Mary, an' ter Sherlock when ya sees 'em. Gawd knows whether the four o' us will ever be all together again…"

"Now!"

My fustian farewells were cut short as John, suddenly accelerating the drive, made the van slither around another kerb. There were market stalls left and right of us, empty now after night had fallen, but still an admirable opportunity to disappear.

"Godspeed!" My companion whispered as I slid off my seat, plopped ungracefully to the ground by the moving vehicle, and gathered myself up to make my exit just in time, for the police followed closely indeed, going round the kerb at the top of their speed, and I ducked behind one of the deserted barrows to evade the flashlights.

They rattled by quite oblivious, on the track of Watson's craft. I inhaled, deeply relieved. There, that had worked out, thank God. Now on, on into the night!

oooOOOooo

The smell of blood rose metallic, repulsive into her nostrils, and she felt the sudden urge to vomit. If only there weren't so much of it, such a lot of blood trickling out of her body inexorably, let alone the large puddle which slowly accumulated around it, she might stand it.

Why did he hate her so much! She had betrayed many people in her time, more than she could count, but he was the one she had always been faithful to. With an effort, she gathered enough will power to try and lift her arm, but her limb no longer would follow her command, and she let it succumb it to gravity.

The puddle deepened steadily. Not even vomiting would work out. Her entire frame failed her. Somewhere, a door crashed. With a faint grimace of declination, she eyed the thin, breathless man who, rushing in a moment later; dropped to his knees beside her and reached for what would all too soon be her corpse.

"It was he who did it, wasn't it?"

Deep furrows etched into the skin around his tight lips. His brows contracted almost to the degree of meeting on the ridge of his nose. An effort at negation only succeeded in her head lolling aimlessly about on the floor. She knew well who he was, albeit she had never set eyes on him before.

"He did that to you, didn't he?" The man insisted, briefly glancing over her wounds and examining her pulse. "He betrayed and attacked you, Betsy. You owe him no solidarity. Pray, if you know anything that might help, now is the time to speak!"

More lolling of her head. She would not be talked into treason; she would remain steadfast until the very last breath.

"You must know!" The intruder pleaded, bargaining with her upon the threshold to eternity. "You could save Kitty Winter, if only you would! What does he plan, Betsy? He would not have done this if you didn't share his secrets! What happened to Natasha Orlansky? What else will he undertake to get at Kitty?"

His demanding cries sounded more and more distant. Finally she could only discern an occasional "Natasha Orlansky" or "Kitty Winter" before her mind began to swim and she eventually dropped into oblivion.

oooOOOooo

The winter was mild and the sky a mild dove grey above the Kinsale harbor. I was met by my brother Jonathan at the pier, and together, we travelled through the hills in his dog cart.

The why and how of my spontaneous visit we barely touched in our welcome chattering. I was curious to learn how everybody was in the old homeland (the children beginning to learn fluent Gaelic, and Annie slimming down to whatever purpose), and Jonathan had ever been the more talkative out of us. Naturally he knew, by Holmes' telegram, what had occurred in London, but we had silently agreed to pretend I had just come to stay the last months before confinement with my family, so he restrained himself to a brief enquiry after my sea voyage and general condition.

The hills, gradually rising at first, diminished bit by bit some distance beyond the coast, and soon we found ourselves in a strip of dense woodland. Conversation ceased and I bend forward eagerly, scenting home as the foliage thickened above our heads. The road narrowed down to a tunnel of sorts, it just allowed the passage of our cart between the huddled trees, wrestling for space with the wild, untamed undergrowth.

We had come to the point of lowering our heads to evade the deep hanging, mossy branches of decayed oaks and alders, when at last the road broadened a little, and an occasional ray of the sun penetrated the canopy of leaves. Jonathan urged the horse to go more quickly as we passed the stone gate, fallen into disrepair since last I had been here, and gave me a silent, amused glance, for the joy of childhood regained must have radiated from my face.

Dear memories and inanimate friends of the past reintroduced themselves aplenty that day. I have only an indistinct recollection of the familiar drive up to the house, the garden, neatly farmed once again, the straw roof of the ancient horse shed, but first and foremost the house itself, its green blinds, its cozily smoking chimney and the compulsory stack of wood in front to keep the fire going.

I felt or thought nothing particularly worth mention. I just felt what I saw: home. Sliding from my seat without waiting for a gentleman's aid, as I had learned to do in Holmes' company, I greeted the bouncing, yelping Rhodesian Ridgeback; not identical with the dog we used to keep of course, but welcome all the same. Annie's ever naughty, ever ill-mannered young boys dashed past me as I made my way through the door, into the smoky anteroom that traditionally served as a sort of central heating for the entire place, and right there she was, with little Nicholas on her arm and young Susan by her side, smiling and indeed changed from the cantankerous, slightly obese London matron.

"Kitty! Dear!" she just handed her daughter the infant and opened her arms to draw me into a bear hug. I did not quite know what was happening to me when the baby was shoved in between the two of us and Susan, from behind, hugged me too. If anything, I felt close to asphyxiation by the time they let me go, and to being overly demanded by the shower of words Annie spilt over me.

"Heaven's, but that belly 'as grown, hain't it? When are ya due? By cripes, if I 'd knowed you'd come I'd 'ave prepared yer room for ya. Come an' see what we done wiv the kitchen! There's a green 'ouse behind the dining room now, too…nah, not through there, stupid, we 'ad the privies installed in there las' week. Ya can't imagine the trouble! Jus' picture a bunch a fellers, trying to get their fancy car through that jungle out there…"

Eager to see the outcome of the renovations, I stepped into the kitchen, admired Annie's modern hearth and oven, the spacious larder and the new flagstones, and then proceeded into the dining room. What I saw in there took me by surprise and immensely pleased me indeed: The round table had been laid out for seven, silver glinting and porcelain agleam, and a dainty figure was bent over it to light the candles, so demurely I at first mistook her for some servant.

The flash of the match only made me realize my error, it illuminated the young, slightly flushed face, and a strand of carefully locked hair tumbled over her ear in a most charming manner. When at least she straightened and turned toward me, I thought I faced my mother as she was in the earliest recollections from my infancy.

"Welcome, Aunt Cathy", Fanny said calmly, her exhilaration disguised with a ladylike reticence. "Won't you have a seat and be our guest?"

**Hooray! At last, I got this finished. Yes, yes. I know updates are getting sparse, but my health remains shaky and since I got my own household, I admit my thoughts revolve around it most of the time. I can't imagine how I'll manage once I have a baby. I'll do my best, naturally.**

**So! Kitty has been safely transferred to Ireland, but Holmes and Watson remain in the enemy's target line. Can they find a way to eliminate Baron Gruner? They'll require help from outside…**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	79. Chapter 79

Chapter seventy-nine: Via the Wire

"_She's mostly sad/ at times is gay/ at times is quite wept out, and then/ it seems, is calm again/ and is in love always." Goethe's Faust_

9th December 1887

Birdsong woke me in the guest room on the break of the next day, a single blackbird first; then joined by a thrush, and in the end, when I opened the window; a whole choir greeted my sleepy appearance. The mist still hung in thin shrouds over the steep swampy meadow on the backside of the house, and at six o'clock in the morning it was quite gloomy, but not remotely the bitter cold morrow to which London had accustomed me. Actually, it felt quite warm, courtesy of the gulfstream that so conveniently embraced our little country.

The rest of the house were already up and about, as was brought to my notice by its distant soundscape, and, emerging from the admittedly dazing cold washing water bowl, I thought I perceived the smell of fresh coffee along with an inviting insinuation of fried eggs and sausage. My morning sickness had quit me sometime around the fourth month, for which I was grateful, and so I was looking forward to a hearty breakfast, the toll the little person inside was taking on me more and more pressing.

I encountered Fanny on the landing, as neatly dressed and coiffed as on the antecedent day, her earnest young face arranged in significant creases.

"Aunt Cathy, it is good ye're awake. They's been a chap at the door earlier in the mornin', askin' fer ya, but seein' as ya were still in bed, 'e left the telegram in muvver's care…"

I found my heart palpitating with the abundance of possible significations such tidings might possess, but regained full control of myself and descended the oaken stairs with a measured step and little hope of finding the message intact. I had not been deceived: As soon as my foot hit even floor, the kitchen door flew open and Annie scurried toward me, flustered and evidently desirous to be of help.

"It's Mr.'olmes, Kit. 'e's cabled from London that ye're ter call 'im by 'phone at two p.m. exactly. 'ere's the number."

She handed me the missive, and glancing over it, I found she had withheld no news from me. Raising my eyes again, I saw her watching me intently.

"Is there a telephone in the 'ouse?"

"Nah, but the post office in the village 'ave 'un", she replied, quick as a shot.

I sighed, and resigned myself to having no privacy at all for the remained of my stay.

oooOOOooo

Annie had greatly improved, I thought grimly as I pedaled out of the wood and past the sign displaying the place's name – both in English and Gaelic – with the loss of her superfluous weight she had recovered her health and a certain peace of mind, but still lacked good manners to a deplorable extent. Reading my mail like that…

I avoided hitting a hay cart, whose bucolic conductor took off his hat to me in appreciation, and I marveled at his easy acceptance of a woman astride a bike, which still would have been slightly unseemly in London - at least for women of breeding - and began to wonder about whether the Irish countryside were not the more emancipated spot out of the two, when it struck me that I was thinking about such inconsequential falderal merely to shut out uneasy anticipations from my mind.

Having leant my bike against the war memorial on the village green, I entered the post office, asking for the use of the telephone, and dialed the number indicated on the telegram. It rang a couple of times and feared nobody would answer it when there was a repeated clicking and cracking to be heard on the line, and finally the voice of my husband, unnerved to the point even I, who was unable to see him, could perceive it.

"Hello? Hello? Is this working now?"

"Sherlock!" I exclaimed, then, realizing several people in the small rural office had turned their heads my way; I dropped my voice to a hushed whisper. "Are ya well?"

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you. Wiggins, could you try and do something about those noises down the line, please? Now, that's more like it. Kitty, Watson tells me that in your flight from the Bristol officials, you were forced to jump from a moving vehicle."

"I wa'n't hurt."

"The – the baby?"

"I received no perceptible injury", I replied, at the same time glad about his concern for the child and offended because it left so very little concern for myself.

"You had better see a physician, though. Try and see if you can find a capable practitioner over there."

He sounded as if I had plunged into a wilderness inhabited by primitive ape men.

"What about Watson, anyway?" I quizzed, anxious lest something be wrong with the good doctor. "Were ya able ter clear 'im 'o the charge?"

"It proved unnecessary. As soon as he was arrested and identified by the police, word reached the authorities that the search warrant for him had been a crude hoax. Whosoever was the instigator, it is certainly obvious he was not interested in the doctor, but in delaying your departure for Ireland. Kitty, you are now officially a person wanted by the police for interrogation."

I felt my heart sink into my boots, happy as I was to be back home, it was awful to imagine I could not return to London at discretion, especially considering what I had left behind. It was the question of a, at least preliminary, reunion I was about to address, but Holmes quickly forestalled my inquiry.

"You must not return, or try to make contact of your own accord, do you hear Kitty? Not before I have untangled this malicious intrigue."

I hesitated only briefly before I gave my word upon it. "'ave ya achieved anything so far?"

"I talked to the young man, Dr. Levhin. Unfortunately, the fellow succumbed into a state of listlessness and self-pity, I'm very much afraid he won't be of too much use to our investigation."

"He's jus' lost 'is loved one, Holmes", I quietly reminded him.

"Quite so. At the very least, I managed to wrangle from him his opinion as a doctor whether Miss Orlansky had or had not been suicidal. He thought it very possible she had taken her own life."

"We already knew that. I found 'er dangling from the ceiling above 'er bed, dammit!"

The horrible memory overpowered me for a second and I let him talk heedlessly.

"You can never be too sure, my dear child. Fact remains, there is such a thing as a forced suicide, I have seen plenty myself. No doubt you can recall the case Watson entitled "The Resident Patient"? That was just such a one."

"I'm aware it's no un'eard of thing. It's jus'…who would be capable o' such a deed?" I called down the line, clutching the receiver like a lifeline.

A brief pause.

"Can you think of no one?" Holmes finally asked, his toned calm and matter-of-fact. "Can you imagine nobody who resented the two of you enough to devastate your respective lives?"

I inhaled deeply. "Naturally I've ta'en the factor Baron Gruner may constitute into account. I'm jus' not convinced that…"

"Kitty, pray stop twaddling. If our assumption is correct and that Betsy girl had taken your fatal letter to compromise you, the Baron is in on it, I am positive."

"So – have you sought her out, then?"

"I tried that", he informed me drily. "She was literally drowning in her own blood when I found her."

I started. "She's dead?"

"Not quite. It remains to be seen, but from what I've heard from the head surgeon, a recovery is more probably than her demise. No vital organs have been destroyed by the shot, however the bullet grazed a lung wing and smashed a rib or two. All in all, she's in a fairly undesirable condition."

I could not muster up more than a general kind of compassion; Betsy had been too hateful to me.

"What do you propose to do?"

"Wait", he returned evenly. "In the meantime, there remains nothing for me to do save to try and furnish you with an alibi for the time of Miss Orlansky's death."

"Oh, good."

I sighed as the pure madness of the situation once more descended on me, and gave a desperate, stifled half-laugh.

"Thank ya, darling. Thanks fer doin' all o' this for me."

"No need to thank me. Keep safe. We need to finish now; the connection will be gone before long. I – it is hard to dispense with you, Kitty."

"Sherlock, but – "

However, the interruption had already taken place, and he was gone.

oooOOOooo

Our brief talk occupied my mind for a good portion of the remaining day. Glad as I was that nothing of consequence had happened to Dr. Watson or even Sherlock, all I had been told smacked of considerable peril for me and every person connected to me.

"But if that lady survives, she'll help ya givin' a testimony against the Baron, innit?"

Her young birdlike head cocked to the side, my niece shot an inquisitive glance at me. She knelt on a large, flat stone in the midst of a small stream running through the woods which surrounded our house, letting a bark boat float in the shallow water and dedicatedly trying to recapture it once it had whirled around the rock.

"She'll tell 'em 'ow it was that evil geezer what had yer friend killed, an' they'll put 'im in boom fer donkeys, an' ya'll be safe from him. Ain't I right?"

I slowly shook my head and steered the cold water of the current with my rubber boots. "It's not as easy as that, love. We don't e'en know that Natasha did not die of her own volition."

She wrinkled her nose, fishing for the much damaged little boat. "That's an awful thing ter do, killing yerself."

"I know, hon. But my friend Natasha was a very sad young lady, ya sees. Very weary of this world."

"I jus' don't see the point. Life's good, dontcha think?"

"Yes. Very much so."

I wondered at her easy assumption that every child and every man had to be as hard-bitten and plucky as she was herself, who in her young life had faced the worst circumstances caused by alcoholism, domestic violence and outright soul-killing poverty. Fanny took the things the way they occurred, and though puerile delight shone from her face, engaging as she was in jollities she had missed at an earlier age, she was capable of switching back to the earnest, old-maidish expression within seconds.

I joined her on the stepping stone in the center of the rivulet, shaking the water off my footwear. "Natasha didn't learn ter cope wiv things like we did, the poor darling. She was wont ter live in a swell place, wiv valets an' maids and horses an' carriages an' all kinda things. An' all o' this was ta'e away from her when she fell for the Baron, see? 'er muv an' dad jus' turned their backs on 'er, an' when Gruner, in whom she 'ad 'ad so much faith, dumped 'er as well, it sort of broke her. She was a little ill in 'er soul, too."

Fanny watched me with owlish eyes. Her little boat had been abandoned, it trundled through the eddy around the rock, ownerless, and in the end floated away, down the stream.

"D'ye mean, loike yer Mr. 'olmes?"

"What d'ye mean, loike Mr. 'olmes?" I asked with a little edge to my tones.

"'e's ill in 'is soul, too", the child frankly declared. "They must 'ave shared the same illness. Maybe they's medicine against it? Tonic?" She suggested, a little daunted by my certainly blatant consternation.

I did not reply, but waded back to firm ground with small, deliberate steps, glad to have my back turned to the child. Tears pricked in my eyes. Was it true Sherlock suffered from a similar kind of depressiveness as my late friend? Being his mother's son, it would not be out of the question. Had his kinship of spirits with Natasha added to his desire to avoid her company? Had she constituted a mirror, showing him his own state, since he was of the same kidney?

There were traits in his nature that were more than mildly morbid, I could testify to that. And he descended from the same caste as his psychological counterpart, he had been spoiled by a comfortable youth and the luxuries that prevent one from assuming the tough stance my own people entertained toward life's pitfalls. He had not been hardened by rough circumstances, and therefore his soul was delicate, vulnerable, and ever prone to fall victim to melancholia. It was one of the things which, if I was quite honest to myself, enticed me about him, being so completely the opposite of myself.

But did that mean he might be suicidal?

oooOOOooo

Hundreds of leagues away from peaceful Ireland, in a dire London hospital, Elizabeth Cribb opened her remarkably blue eyes. The pain she felt, though no doubt alleviated by administrations of laudanum, was enough almost to reduce her to instant oblivion again. It was only by a considerable effort at self control that she managed to remain conscious.

A keen desire for revenge and personal satisfaction penetrated her drug-beclouded mind. Baron Adalbert Gruner, the infernal swine! Kitty Winter and Natasha Orlansky, the filthy whores! Sherlock Holmes, the insufferable busybody! She would defy them all!

**Well well well!**

**Once again, its been a long time. Are you still out there? I do hope the progress of the tale will reach some of you. **

**Personally, I am less concerned for Sherlock than Kitty presently is. She sees everything from her own perspective only and if she considers him delicate, she'll be shown soon that she is at least partly wrong about him.**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	80. Chapter 80

Chapter eighty:Bargaining

Sherlock Holmes had reached the Hounslowe hospital with more than the usual amount of traffic hampering his progress, he had made it inside by means of command and threat and all other kinds of pressure, had submitted to an abundance of foolish formalities on the part of the personnel, and had been sitting in the waiting room for what was dangerously approximating the full hour. He was aboil.

"My good doctor, it would mean an immense help if you could forward a statement as to whether I shall see the patient or whether I am just wasting a horrendous lot of time. It may seem a fact hardly credible to you that the medical profession is not the only one in existence to be concerned with matters of life and death."

"You will have to muster some patience yet, Mr. Holmes", he was told quite frankly by the physician in charge, a big, morose man, and not overly impressed with the detective's impetuousness. "Miss Cribb hasn't as yet gone through the daily ward round, and nobody will see her before it is concluded. There's no room for further discussion", he added, seeing that Holmes was on the verge of protesting.

"On your head be it then, doctor!" The affronted man relapsed into his waiting room seat and crossed his arms before the chest, mortally offended. It took the united forces of the doctor, the nurse and the head surgeon to reassure him he would not be imposing himself when finally the patient was ready. That settled, he was remarkably quick to vanish into the sufferer's room.

oooOOOooo

"Miss Elizabeth Cribb? Betsy Cribb?"

"That's me."

The young woman was propped up by cushions in the hospital bed; she looked less torpid than he had expected, in fact, she seemed surprisingly alert and wary. He studied the face, pretty but calculating in a way, and he received a compelling impression of a life spent in the grim attempt to better her lot. It would hardly astonish him if she had not always been finicky in the choice of her means.

"I see you are quite recovered", he tried to advance cautiously, but she discouraged him, snorting loathly. "My congratulations", he added without much hope, and as he had foreseen, she repeated her ungracious snort.

"A splendid show, really. I suppose you brought flowers to make your point? Oh well. What a shame."

Her blue eyes glistened icily.

"I know very well what you are doing here. Do not let yourself be mistaken on that score. Yu have come about Kitty Winter. _Dear_ Kitty Winter."

The snarl was, if at all, very thinly disguised.

"You are right to assume I take a personal interest in the affair", Holmes replied suavely, taking off his hat and placing it on a stool by the window, thus indicating he had no mind to leave within a short time.

"My wife's involvement in the case is, however, only an attendant circumstance and hardly its main feature. I wonder – "

He turned around swiftly, joining his fingertips and piercing her pale, disdainful countenance, " – I wonder if you, madam, are not acting contrary to your own interests by putting first your animosity against Catherine. After all, in your current situation, you ought to consider taking sides with her against the man who, for all intents and purposes, aims at both your lives?"

"Take sides with Kitty?" Betsy had barely hesitated the fraction of a second. Now she broke into a mean, hoarse fit of laughter that for some reason made him uncomfortable. He let her laugh without comment, and when she had calmed down, waited for an explanation she readily gave him.

"Whatever next, Mr. Holmes? The bitch has lead me where I am now. None of this business would have come to pass if it hadn't been for her. I should have known she'd be the nail in my coffin where the Baron was concerned, the first time I set eyes on her. Young, sweet and possessing a semblance of innocence– a semblance, mind you ."

Her narrow mouth quirked sardonically. "I lasted three more weeks in the house before she took over. Three weeks! I went through hell during these weeks. Adalbert made it happen in stages. He deprived me of his love first, then of the right to share his bed, then of being part of the household. I was bundled out of the place before I could say "knife", and all this because of her, dratted red-head!"

Her torrent of hatred had visibly weakened Betsy, for she sank back upon her pillows, breathing in swift shallow draughts. Holmes fleetingly considered saying some words of solace, using her first name which in his experience worked well with most women, but an instinct advised him against it. Not unlike a stack of highly explosive devices, Betsy had to be handled with care.

"I understand you have sufficient reason to hold a grudge against Kitty, though I am convinced any interference on her part happened without intent to harm or dispel you", he observed casually, reflecting on the fact that what he had said was probably untrue. "In the light of more recent events, however, I should advise you to let bygones be bygones, and enter into cooperation with us, from which our respective security would greatly profit. The decision, of course, lies entirely with you."

Betsy's face contorted with the temporary agony of pain one of her flesh wounds caused her, and he saw it with some satisfaction. When the short attack had passed and she gradually relaxed, panting into her hands, he added: "I must not forget to mention that your collaboration in the endeavour will not only grant you security from and gratification vis-à-vis Baron Gruner, but also a not inconsiderable monetary compensation."

"What do you want?" she breathed, eyeing his person with disfavor and suspicion.

"Catherine is wanted for murder – enforced suicide, to be quite precise", Holmes remarked. "Though her whereabouts and her current…condition are sufficient to protect her from immediate enforcement, it is fairly certain she would be sentenced to death on evidence of the letter which was submitted to the police. I take it I am right if I say it was you who delivered it?"

Betsy nodded reluctantly, visibly loath to surrender too much of her knowledge before she knew what remuneration would be in it for her.

"How did you come by it?"

"It stuck in Natasha's postbox. I guessed Kitty had written it because I found her at the door, and she appeared surprised the letter had not been taken out and read. When I addressed her, she admitted as much, and we parted after an exchange of, as you would call it, animosities."

"I am informed of the encounter in question." Holmes assessed her with an even gaze. "The point is; was it your own idea to read the letter and hand it over to the police, or were you told to do so?"

Her eyes narrowed. "How much will I get?"

"Well, what do you ask?" Holmes returned, painfully aware of his lack of talent for commercial negotiation.

"A lot", she all but hissed. "I ask a lot."

He cast down his eyes with a tiny smile. "You have just to name the sum, and the money will be found."

She regarded him shrewdly, and slowly relaxed into a contemptuous chuckle. "My my. You do love that ginger trollop, don't you?"

"Miss Cribb, I asked you a question, and you will do me the courtesy of answering."

She shrugged noncommittally. "Yes, the Baron told me to. So what? I guess she had it coming."

"We will not now discuss the moral dubiety of exposing an innocent woman to the suspicion of murder. What I want to know is this; did the Baron expressly engage you to get my wife into trouble?"

"No. I had resumed living with him some time after his accident – that atrocious attack of your darling wife – and he knew I was in the habit of seeing Natasha Orlansky, Kitty's friend, from time to time. I understand he met the both of them at the opera, and they made him a scene, or at least Kitty did when Natasha overreacted to the encounter with the Baron. She was so dreadfully unstable, poor thing. I guess something like her sad end had to be expected."

Holmes slurred over that statement, digging deeper: "And the Baron told you to hand the letter over?"

"When I told him I had found and taken it, yes."

"And why did you tell him? The Baron, if you'll excuse my saying so, does not strike me as a man who overly concerns himself with the petty disputes of the fair sex."

Betsy fell into an obstinate silence, through which to break Holmes felt compelled by raising his voice. "The choice is yours, Miss Cribb! I need hardly remind you that once you resume your life outside the safe walls of this hospital, you will not have security before Baron Guner dwells behind the equally safe walls of the London prison!"

This seemed to make an impression, for Betsy deigned to grace him with an answer. "The evening Adalbert returned from the Opera", she recounted compliantly, "and told me about Kitty and Natasha, he asked me to keep an eye on them. It could easily be done because of my association with Natasha, and she, poor blabbermouth, told me all she knew about Kitty's life quite of her own volition, with just one or two casual questions in between."

"Didn't you desire to know why; and for what end you were sent to spy on the two women?"

"One does well in not asking too many questions with the Baron", she returned soberly. "I had been expulsed by him once, and had no wish to repeat the experience. I was just glad to do him a favour; and surmised he was planning some kind of revenge on Kitty. He often spoke of taking revenge on Kitty."

With disgust, Holmes imagined it had been very much to Betsy's liking to assist in doing her former rival an injury. Adapting to her way of thinking, he uttered: "That letter must have been a godsend to your purpose. It provided a motive for killing off Miss Orlansky. But to whose credit is the deed in reality? Yours, or Baron Gruners?"

Her reaction both surprised and amused him. She virtually vapoured, flushing as if in honest indignation. "None of us had anything to do with Natasha's death, do you understand? Adalbert swore he didn't do anything, and I know I didn't do it, and you can believe it or not, it isn't of the least consequence to either of us!"

Eyebrow quirked, Holmes countered: "I certainly believe you had not the least to do with it, but be not too hasty in coming to conclusions where Gruner is concerned. We both know he does not shrink from manslaughter and worse crimes. Even you, whom you give every impression of loving him, must be aware of the fact. Besides, it would mean a golden bridge to safety and insouciance for both you and Kitty if Gruner could be associated with this death. All it takes is your testimony…."

But here, he had hit a cul-de-sac. Betsy very determinedly bristled and resisted any attempt of making her participate in a scheme against the Baron, and Holmes had to give up with nothing earned save having set her against him. With a sigh, he surrendered to her vituperations.

"Very well. You wish that justice be done to a man who hardly deserves justice, having attempted to have you killed among other things. I acquiesce. We shall take for a working hypothesis that Miss Orlansky's death was indeed self-inflicted. Where does that leave us? We still face the problem of getting Catherine out of the pit you and your paramour dug for her, and of protecting both victim and confidant from the schemer. The former, you can achieve by accompanying me to the police court as soon as you find yourself equal to it. But for the latter, we need something definite against Gruner. Do I make myself sufficiently understood?"

"Yes indeed", she sulked. "As long as it's something he actually _did_."

"He can certainly be held responsible for your current situation", Holmes pointed out, but she laughed cheerlessly.

"The Baron makes sure he obscures his trail, always. I recognized the assailants, but they are not in Gruner's regular pay. He only hires them from time to time, as the need arises. They also serve him as intermediaries with…"

"Yes?" Holmes urged her, but the woman had snapped shut like an oyster. "Is there someone else? A collaborator?"

"I know nothing", Betsy said breathlessly, something like fear, naked fear creeping into her cold cobalt eyes. "That is, I suppose….he has his affiliates, here and there, to be sure. But I know nothing about them. He never admitted me that far into his affairs. I knew too much already. For heaven's sake, look at me, man, and think of the carnage I was intended for! I know nothing further!"

Sherlock Holmes was, to say the least, taken aback. The baron had attempted cruel murder on the women who had been his companion, and yet Betsy had not appeared nervous or even worried when the question had been about Gruner. Now, she was blatantly panicking. What could be more threatening than her former lover's bloodhounds? Was there somebody else behind everything, an unknown entity, someone reaching for the life of his spouse and his heir-to-be?

The idea was more than a little disturbing. Deep in thought, Holmes left the woman, still vehemently asserting her ignorance, without a word of farewell. Once out of the hospital, he hailed a cab, dismissed it, repeated the procedure and finally boarded the third hansom that presented itself. Having requested of the cabbie to drop him at a certain address, he settled into the worn leather seat, brow profoundly grooved.

**Cheers, dear readers! Your kind responses to the last installment helped me get my lazy bum down to the assignment of writing this. A very merry Christmas to all of you, and a happy new year!**

**Mrs.F**


	81. Chapter 81

Chapter eighty-one: How Aunt Cathy learned the trick

11th December 1887

"_What I possess seems far away to me/and what is gone, becomes reality" Goethe's Faust_

Sherlock's man in Kildare had delivered a cable and I was pedaling through the wood. This was getting irksome.

"Hello? Is this working now?"

"Holmes, I am so weary o' this contraption. Can't we find some other means o' communication? I'm so heavy now I find it difficult ter mount a bicycle", I complained, but he overrode the objection, blithely as ever.

"Kitty, it is just possible our alibi won't do. For the time of Miss Orlansky's death, I could forward a dozen witnesses prepared to testify you spent the evening rehearsing at Mrs. Watson's, but the police are hesitant to accept it. They're under great pressure. Someone up the ladder is urging them to present a culprit, and they're eager to make a case against you. I had a word with Gregson and Lestrade, which confirmed this impression, and it was understood that a quick arrest is desired by the Yard authorities. The trial, if there will be one, is going to be a stitch-up."

I listened to his speech with rising apprehension. "What are we goin' ter do, then?"

"Do not despair. I had aquite talk with Miss Cribb, and left her with an idea that she might help us if sufficiently scared."

"Betsy? She's alive?"

"I told you she would recover. Of course, she is much beleaguered and presently confined to the hospital bed – "

"You cannot trust her." I shook my head vehemently, as though Holmes were face to face with me. "Whatever piece o' information you'll give 'er, she'll use it to my disadvantage. She'll almost certainly betray us."

"I do not intend to give her an opportunity for betrayal. Besides, you did not see her the other day. I am convinced she may be of use to us."

"She's devious."

"That may well be. However, she'll find someone even more cunning than herself if trying to play the crooked game."

I smiled a weak smile. "Ye certainly do not lack self-confidence. Then again, that was ne'er yer problem."

"Indeed, I do think so." His tone, temporarily light, returned to serious. "You're right, she is meretricious. And if she is going to help us, it'll cost money. A lot of money."

"Where will you take that from?" I wondered anxiously, but he pooh-poohed my concerns. "Not to worry. I contacted the Walraven family, and they're fairly eager to support any investigation into the death of their forfeit daughter."

"They better had", I growled tersely. I knew down inside that Natasha's parents had had no hand in her misfortunes, but a part of me insisted they be held responsible. "So what's yer proposed course o' action?"

"It just occurs to me I embezzled the most vital part of my news. Some charwoman came to the fore who describes a man leaving the tenement house on the night in question that sounds suspiciously like the Baron. I intend to enforce a confrontation, if I can persuade Lestrade of the necessity. And I shall take Miss Cribb, if she is prepared to come."

"But you said they're tryin' ter maike it a case 'gainst me."

"They cannot deny hard facts. They can negate Dr. Levhin's evidence that his fiancée was suicidal, they can ignore the testimony of Mrs. Watson's charity ladies, but somewhere there is a limit. I won't let them drag my wife in court, for heaven's sake."

The last bit was given vent with a faint ring of arrogance, and I furtively wondered whether it was not more that than his affection for me which drove him. "If they made up their minds it was me…"

"It is not the common policeman's mind that is against us, Kitty. It is something else. I knew there was somebody, ever before I went down to the Yard. I sensed his presence during my first talk to Miss Cribb. Probably, you know her as the cool, unfeeling character that I encountered in the ward, but during our interview, she perceptibly changed. That girl was not one bit nervous when discussing the Baron – a man who had almost just had her transformed to hash! – showed signs of mortal dread when she accidentally hinted at someone hurrying the Baron into this crusade against you.

I held my breath. "How am I to understand this?"

"It may be it's not his personal motives he is acting for. Consider both you and Miss Orlansky had been living in peace from him for quite a number of years."

"His grudge erupted freshly when he met us at the opera, wiv me a-hollerin' an' a-scoldin' an' Natasha standin' there loike a frightened chavy."

"Perhaps that is all there is to it. Maybe, however, it is not the entire reason why she is dead and you are wanted for murder."

"I jus' guess 'e was angry. He saw he could exert an influence over Natasha, 'cause she was still in love wiv him, but I wan't, an' he realized it an' wanted ter come down on me loike a ton o' bricks. I 'ad a good laugh at 'is ruined face, too."

"So you do not have knowledge of a corroborator of Gruner's?"

"Might be jus' an idea ya received. I see no reason to assume someone requested of the Baron ter do me harm. Ter taike an influence over the police, 'e would have ter be a kind o' second Moriarty, too."

There was a lengthy silence; then Sherlock sighed. "It may yet be you are right. All my instincts indicate the other way, though. I must settle this contention with the police. Should there be some evil-minded agency behind all of this, however, he will probably strike again and next time, perhaps we will not succeed in securing your safety."

oooOOOooo

"Oops! Sorry auntie!"

"Buddy!" I gently reproved Annie's firstborn. "Ya musn't maike such a ruckus in 'ere when I'm workin' on me quilt. Look what you've done!"

I held the length of _millefleur_ printed cotton he had trampled on under his nose. The lovely pattern was mottled and almost invisible beneath a smear of soil, ash and horse manure.

"I am so sorry Aunt Cathy. I promise I'll set it right."

"Are you gonna wash it? Don't maike me laugh, son! I'd rather do it myself, thank ya very much."

I returned to my work, mumbling surly and shaking my head, but the lad did not leave the room, on the contrary, he marched its length up and down, moved through the corners and gave every impression of browsing it.

I let it continue like this for some time, but my curiosity vanquished me. "Awright, boy. Spill it out! Ye're lookin' fer something, ain't ya? Come on, auntie'll help ya searchin' if ya confides in 'er."

"Promise?" He eyed me with deep suspicion.

"Yeah, sure thing."

"Good. It's me chemistry kit. Muv took it away before she left terday, hid it someplaice. Says its dangerous an' it smells. But I want it back. God, I wisht yer Mr. 'olmes were 'ere!"

"Mr. 'olmes?" I frowned, caught flat-footed. Goodness, was I so daft, so much less inquisitive than my husband that I could not even be trusted to retracing my sister's simple thoughts?

"Yeah, him. I 'ear he could solve every puzzle. A chum o' mine read his adventures to me back 'ome in London."

"Pah!" I snorted derisively. "What Holmes can do I certainly can achieve with ease. I picked up one or two o' his tricks, ya sees. Now, what was contained in this malodorous chemistry set of yourn?"

"Er….a little magnesium chloride, sulphur, a bunsen burner, several syringes and pipets, a culture dish, ammonia, butyric acid…."

"Perfect!" I clapped my hands together in delight. "Mr. 'olmes used ter experiment with butyric acid. It develops a horrible smell, especially when evaporating in great heat. Now, what ere goin' ter do is this: Bring into the house what you can from the bulk o' firewood. I shall close all the windows and light a fire in every fireplace o' every room. When a certain temperature has been reached, the acid will vaporize an' all that remains ter do is follow the smell. Does that sound loike a plan?"

"Aunt Cathy!" The eyes of the fifteen year old sparkled with admiration. "Ye're one great detective, ya knows that?"

oooOOOooo

The maidservant was nervous, he could sense that. Despite his reputation of being a cold-blooded being without gifts of empathy, he had developed a keen perception of what other people felt. Next to the woman, Betsy Cribb was perfectly composed, a woman with a heart of steel and a mind that could shock with its selfishness and expediency.

The fourth seat in the cab was occupied by chief inspector Lestrade, who restlessly turned over his bowler hat in his hands. Clearly, he was uncomfortable with the situation. His narrow mind could be literally ready through the worried forehead, oscillating between anxiousness about what his superior would say, and fear of ridicule because he had gone on a wild goose chase with the notorious meddler, Sherlock Holmes.

Either way, it would not come to that. The night had to be success, or Kitty would be doomed to residency in Ireland till judgement day, and his son born into a milieu that was not in the least what he had been planning for his progeny. The women just had to make Gruner talk. Betsy had already admitted Gruner had paid Natasha Orlansky a visit on her last day, though she had refused to repeat the statement at the police station. Now, this just had to bring matters to a head.

The cab halted and he descended, offering his hand to the plump, daunted cleaning lady, then to Betsy, whose ironical smile chilled his blood. Lestrade was the last man out. He sent a stern glance at his longtime partner in crime.

"Is this going to work out, Mr. Holmes?"

He inhaled deeply, running over the splendid housefront, perfectly kept just as the last time he had called – or rather, burgled – here.

"Yes, Inspector. This is bound o work out."

oooOOOooo

Annie Morris returned from the local market a little later than anticipated, because she had had such a nice bit of gossip with one of her bucolic neighbours.

She perceived the smell before the house came into sight.

"For Heaven's sake!"

Her sister, with an unhappy face, met her on the doorstep.

"Annie, please don't get worked up. I really, really want ter apologize…."

"The stink is breathtaking!" Annie freed herself roughly from Kitty's placating grasp. "God awmighty, what did ye _do_?"

Kitty nervously entwined her hands in front of her large stomach. "Ahm, ya remembers that chemistry kit ya toom from Buddy this mornin'? It, ahm, sort o' exploded, loike…"

"How could that happen? I expressly hid it in the funnel o' the kitchen fireplaice, so that the li'le rascal should not find it!"

"Well…" Her sister cast down her eyes, so that she might have looked at the tips of her feet if those had protruded from beneath the rotund belly. "Let's jus' say your funnel is wider now."

**Whahey! Another chapter concluded! I love those moments. Writing is just like labour, its exhausting, but in the end you're in love with the baby. Hope you'll like it, too!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	82. Chapter 82

Cahpter eighty-two: Shifting grounds

„_Seek to bewilder men – that is my view. But satisfy them? That is hard to do." Goethe's Faust_

25th December 1887

"What was that?"

I raised my eyes from the baking tray to receive the answer I had expected.

"Nothin', auntie."

I had not had word from London in a fortnight. Sherlock's envoy from Kildare had ceased to arrive at our door, and there were no more engagements to talk via the telephone, nor did I post any letters, mindful of his request that I was not to do so. Still, adrenaline jolted through my frame each time a message of any kind was delivered to us.

"The coal-man", Annie expounded, when I wiped back some trailing hair from my farinaceous cheeks and lowered my head. "Brought us the bill punctually on Christmas Day. Nice feller, that 'un, re'lly. You awright?" she added solicitously when I remained silent and made a little face. Sherlock/Kitty junior – no, Sheridan Holmes, I reminded myself – had been troubling me all morning.

"You don't look yer usual self, Kit", Jonathan observed, stepping into the kitchen from outside, his musket barrel tilted to the side and two dead pheasants dangling from his gloved wrist. "It ain't gonna happen _that_ soon, is it?" The anxiety in his voice spoke of the masculine dread of these affairs, present even in my hardy sailor brother.

"Round the first o' April, te village physician tol' me", I replied, resting the bulk of my weight on my forearms and breathing in and out consciously.

"That so-called physician, 'e ain't better than most veterinarians!" Annie helpfully provided her opinion. "When I saw 'im about li'lle Grahame's acute ear…"

"Sure, Annie. Ahm, Kit? If perhaps ya laid down fer a while…"

"No, no. A walk, maybe – where is Fanny?"

"Oh, I need's 'er in the pantry", Annie cut in. "Nobody can arrange it neater than 'er."

"Taike the dog", Jonathan suggested. "If ye're worse, jus' taike it slow, an' 'e'll show us where ter find ya."

"Right." I wiped my hands on my pinafore before taking it off and hanging it on the rack by the door. "See ya at tea-time, then."

"Don't forget the children wanna dec'rate the tree wiv ya!" Annie called after me when I ventured out into the mild, sunshiny Christmas day.

Of course, I did not bother about the dog. Really, what was Jonathan all about? Was that his opinion of me? My little girl's days had long been gone. If a grown up woman who had roamed the hazardous quarters of Greater London could no longer risk a little constitutional in the neighbouring wood, she might indeed stay at home as well and bake pastries. I tossed my head, and took the straightest way into the ancient broad-leaved forest.

The ground was soaked, for it had been raining hard these past days, and I was glad about my sturdy seven-league-boots. The air was redolent of wet earth and bark, and my heart was jubilant and thankful for the moment of peace I was granted by my womb. I swiftly crossed the wood and the adjacent field, setting out to wander the hilly marshes by the road from Kildare.

My thoughts revolved around the pending Christmas dinner and how the children were looking forward to it. Since emptying their Christmas stockings in the morning, they had talked about little else. Personally, I could feel no genuine cheer, thinking about my solitude and isolation. Of course, neither Jonathan nor Annie had a spouse to celebrate the day with, but this was different.

Why did I not get a message from my husband? A short note would suffice to release me from my worried brooding. If it had been an option to return to England and seek him out straight away, I would long have done so, however, an immediate arrest on my arrival was not a very auspicious prospect. My gaze supinely drifted over the green surroundings, taking in all it saw, but making no connections. Only once did it briefly occur to me that the large mire Jonathan once had mentioned had to be someplace close by, only one or two leagues from here. Now, what had I been saying to myself?

Right, quite right, seeking out Holmes was no realistic alternative, and any attempt at correspondence he had outright prohibited. So, what was I to do? I could do nothing, that was the long and short of it, I was sentenced to inertia. The ground beneath my feet had softened and started to cling at my heels some hundred yards ago, releasing them with a smacking sound, but hardly was I aware of it, striding out in y slowly building fury.

Why did he do this to me? Was it because something had happened, did his silence mean that evil had befallen my loved one? Impossible, John or Mary would have let me know if this were the case. Could it be, then, that Sherlock had abandoned my case? Had he given up about me; or what else could the hiatus in our exchange possibly signify? Perhaps he had taken to some other girl. Yes, that was it. He had selected some other inconsequential existence of my gender, bound her by contract, and fathered another child. The best I could hope for, I thought with hot tears pricking at my eyes, was that he had not made her move into my old room at Baker Street, to occupy my space, my desk, my bed…

I had stopped keeping track of my movements, and overlooked warning signs like the long blades of snake grass that peeked out of the marshy green in large tufts, and the occasional gurgling hole of pitch-back morass. How could he be so faithless? I had known, ever since the beginning, that the whole affair had a concrete bargain at its bottom. However - , I ducked beneath the deep hanging branches of a mulberry bush, - one would have thought, that during the past months, according to all outward appearances – the tremor of utter shock sped through my body, and in stumbling, tripping, I was successful to snatch at the branch closest to me, holding on for dear life.

I had stepped into one of the bog holes, and the greedy swamp sucked at my ankles, tenacious and without mercy. Frantic struggling resulted in my sinking in to the knees. I was stuck in the great Kildare fen.

oooOOOooo

First, I felt frozen. I had some little margin in which I could move, but I dared not do it, having realized that motion only resulted in sinking in deeper. So I clung to the tree. Waiting.

I hardly knew what to wait for. My nether half was sodden with the turbid water, with my feet feeling as if evil goblins at the mire's depth pulled on tem for their sinister amusement. The cold around my legs and waist increased with every minute that passed. My fingers grew stiff and tired, clawed into the length of branch they only just could reach. My panic augmented. What was I waiting for?

I experienced a brief déjà-vu, closing my eyes and suddenly standing in a cold cellar, the darkness quite opaque and my hands shackled above my head. I was waiting for certain death. The slough would take what the Ripper had not. My fingers ached so badly. I prepared myself for letting go, but could not quite. The fear of death was omnipotent within me.

There, a sound! Were those horseshoes? Yes, indeed! A distant clip-a-clop drew slowly nearer on the country road. I opened my eyes in time to see the coupé turn around the hillock, threatening to pass me by unheeding. At the great risk of losing it altogether, I loosened my grip on the knaggy bush's limb, waving one arm at the craft which slowly trundled down the lane.

"He – Help! Heeeelp me!"

The wind worked to my disadvantage, carrying my voice to the hillock, away from my potential saviours. I waved about more desperately, hollering, to my own ears, like a thunderstorm.

"Help! Here – here!"

Finally, the vehicle came to a halt, and I could indistinctly see the driver rise from his seat and look about, uncertain whether he had not fallen prey to his own imagination, down here in the deserted moor. I waved to the point almost of dislocating my arm.

"Over here! Please!"

Now, at last, he resumed his seat and turned around his vessel. Te relief was so overpowering I would fain have cried. By the time he stopped again, close to the site of my accident, I had managed to regain my grasp on the mulberry-bush with both my hands, drawing myself up as far as possible. "Help me, please!" I sniveled pathetically.

"My dear woman! Hold out a little longer, I'll come to your rescue."

The local accent of the cabbie instantly soothed my agony. He hopped from his seat, and cautiously approached through the treacherous terrain.

"Be careful!" I squealed, but he merely laughed at my anxiety.

"No worries, my lass. I know how to make my way on unstable territory, be assured."

Somehow, his words struck me as curious, but I had no time to think about it. "Hold on to that branch", he ordered me quite superfluously, and shoved his hands beneath my arm-pits. "Now – one – two – three – "

He wrenched on my torso with surprising strength, but the warp was loath to yield his victim. "I am afraid ya'll 'aver ter leave me 'ere", I driveled, over-excited as I was. "It ain't no use."

"Poppycock. I may require the help of my fare, but I'll get you out of here. Though…ne doesn't know, with those wispy London gentlemen…"

Despite the danger, I pricked my ears. "Your fare is a London gentleman?"

"Comply with me, girl. Suck that belly in! Right, right. _Now _we're getting somewhere."

With lots of hauling and hoisting, we bit by bit progressed, until I was free to the calves. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the figure that was seated in the coupé, an undistinguishable face peeping out from beneath a broad hat rim.

"Steady girl, steady. Now, look at those stockings! What a mess you've made of yourself!"

That was going a little too far. I was grateful for the narrow salvation of my life, or what to me felt like it, but that did not mean it was the fellow's place to adopt familiar tones.

"Thank you fer yer much needed help, sir", I said, with more haughtiness perhaps than became my appearance, shivering, covered in fetid slick and clambering out of the sump with the id of his outstretched hand and the support of a scraggly moor bush. "I think I will find my own way back home, once we're on the road."

"That I cannot allow", the man retorted with a sudden change to a more serious inflection, and the scales fell from my eyes.

"Gawd, 'olmes! It's you!"

"It is I", he confirmed gravely, which must have seemed queer as he stood before me in his cabman's makeup, but did not in the least.

"But why – how", I spluttered, but he put his arm around my shoulders and conducted me toward the road.

"We can't risk your catching a cold. Here, put this on."

He slipped off his heavy ulster; and hung it on me as one would have on a manikin.

"Oh, it's freezing. But, Holmes? Who's that man in there?"

He hurried me across the road to the cab, and urged me to mount the driver's seat with him. "He is I, if you must know. When moving in an unsought atmosphere, it is advisable sometimes to swap identities. This way, filly!"

He pressed the mare into motion, and soon we rolled into the shadowy woodlands.

"We're not being followed, are we?" I squeaked apprehensively, looking about.

"Oh, by no means. I'm just taking precautions that may prove to be quite unnecessary."

"So, what brings you 'ere?" I insisted."What's happenin' in London? Why did I not receive yer reports?"

"It is a long story. But first things first." He flashed me a quick look that spoke of concern. "Let us get you into the warmth. We can walk from here, and I will send back cabman O'Toole – formerly traveler Sherlock Holmes – back with his cab to where he came from."

oooOOOooo

That was all I could learn from him for now. We walked in on Annie and Jonathan, who had their first taste of Sherlock Holmes' quirks and proclivity to surprise, and after I had quickly changed into a dressing gown, he marched me into the library, where a lively fire was burning.

"So, you're still there, old bounder!" Sherlock remarked briskly, giving Ginger Jack, who had rolled up on the hearth rug, a swift pat. "Well, well. I'm glad to see everything is quite unchanged; that is most satisfying."

I more or less collapsed into the wicker chair, placed by the gazebo which contained the still unadorned Christmas tree. My husband assumed his favourite pose in front of the fireplace, and, seeing how we were being allowed our privacy, he cleared his throat.

"Now, Kitty. I understand you are eager to learn what has occurred since last we spoke via cable, and why it is that I did not put you in the picture about recent events."

I weakly nodded my consent.

"Quite so. I am sure I have several valid reasons to having kept you in the dark. Fist, I was loath to disturb you with alarming news, with due regard to your precarious condition."

He cocked an eyebrow. "This reason, I am afraid, I could well have dismissed on the grounds that you have spent your time here rather getting yourself in jeopardy than keeping safe and sound."

I hung my head a little at the more than justified reproof, but he chuckled it off. "No offence intended, my dear. The second reason was that I meant to have everything arranged and dealt with before we two met again, and I had quite made up my mind to be with you on this exact date – as a surprise, one might say."

"The surprise is successful", I replied, lifting my softly flushed head.

There was a smile indicated by the crinkled around his eyes, speaking half of fondness and half of something a little darker. However, his self-containment ever prevailing, he carried on: "The third reason I cannot yet tell you. Let it suffice that I had something to do back home, the outcome of which you shall realize when we return to England together."

"Together?" I gasped, and almost knocked over the mulled hock one of the maids had placed at my elbow. "I can return? Does that mean I am acquitted?"

"Yes, you can." He nodded his head gravely. "And now you shall hear how it came to pass."

But here we were interrupted by the door being pushed open forcefully. Much rather than the giant I had half expected to see, it was my young niece Fanny, her cheeks glowing red with the excitement of the news. "Mr. 'olmes! You're 'ere!"

My man was about to offer his hand to the child when she very impulsively flew at him and slung her arms around him. He did not so much as to shove her away, but it was not all that far from it. I hid my smile from his alarmed expression, the dread of physical contact written all over his face.

"When did ya arrive? Why wan't I told?" Fanny inquired relentlessly; perfectly oblivious to the discomfort she had caused her object of affection. I believe if she had been tall enough, she would have ruffled his hair like that of a naughty boy. "Did auntie fetch ya from the station?"

"No, she did not", Holmes replied with a wary glance at the girl, straightening his jacket and preparing for another outburst of familial heartiness. The beaming expression could not be shushed from Fanny's visage.

"So, ya ame 'ere to take 'er by surprise?"

"Such was my intention. We met half the way, so to say."

"How romantic!" he clapped her hands together, screwing up her eyes in something close to painful rapture.

"Very." Holmes smiled his curious smile again, giving me a quick look. "I arrived in time to prevent your aunt's descent into the Kildare quagmire, which, as she was on the point of taking with her something irretrievable and belonging to us in equal shares, would have resulted in my pronounced regret."

**Hope it was to your liking! ;-) see you next chapter.**

**Love, Mrs.f**


	83. Chapter 83

Chapter eighty-three: A culmination

26th December 1887

"_Kiss me!Do! Or I'll kiss you!" Goethe's Faust_

Another morning dawned above the swampy stretch of land behind our house, one of those few remaining in the old year. I stood by the window, my arms tightly wound around my upper body, and watched the gradual changes in the scenery that herald the break of day: With the slow ascent of the morning sun, a few does that had been grazing in the misty grounds now swiftly disappeared into the wood, the birds began to stir and the thin shrouds of fog bit by bit dissolved to grant me, the clandestine onlooker, a clear vista of the young day.

Slowly revolving, I rested my gaze on my man, peacefully sleeping, for the curtains had not yet been drawn. His breath was regular and profound, his lips slightly parted to ease inhalation. Arms locked below my bosom, I leisurely approached his unconscious form, considerate of my nightgown that somewhat exceeded me in length. Sherlock's eyelids briefly twitched when I sat down on his bedside, but he did not wake. His sleep remained undisturbed by my vigil. I very lightly stroked his unruly head, and continued watching the night being transformed into day.

Yesterday had been a strain on my husband. The weary journey and the adventure in the bog had taken a toll on his physical condition, but that counted as nothing compared to the ordeal an ordinary Christmas dinner meant to a person of his sensitive nature, easily overcharged with human relation issues. Fanny's fondness, the merry rumpus of the four other children, my sister's temper and my brother's occasional inquisitiveness had been one too many, and I had feared his misanthropy would get the better of Sherlock and he would turn abusive. But my worries had been in vain. He had left with an excuse of smoking outside, for Annie would not have it in the house, and later on, when the family was busy retrieving trinkets from the plum pudding, I had joined him t snatch a quiet moment in the conservatory.

"Is it soothing?"

I smiled awkwardly, nodding at his cigarette. He flicked some ash to the floor.

"I always find it exercises a most becalming effect."

"Poor boy", I teased, making a wry face. "I am truly sorry ya 'ave ter go through all o' this."

"There's nothing here I did not anticipate when I made up my mind to come. Do we have some time? I have an idea you do not relish being kept in the dark about things."

I turned my neck to look after the others, but they seemed quite gleefully occupied, and surely did not miss us.

"I fink the coast is clear. We can talk a little."

"How convenient. I am going to relate now my dealings with Baron Gruner - you'll be gratified to hear he is currently in residency at a Dartmoor establishment which, although renowned, does have a number of drawbacks compared to his Kingston mansion."

"No."

My face fell, and I had a discomforting sense of looking utterly dumb.

"Adalbert – Adalbert cannot – can't be in boom – or is he?"

"You seem to think it impossible." His tone grew distinctly cooler. "Am I to understand, then, that you expected my failure? You trusted he would outmatch me? _Me?_"

"No – Holmes, I di'n't mean ter imply – "

"You may forget about it!" he spat, turning his back on me. We stood for a while, in silence. Finally I ventured, with due hesitation: "Sherlock, I cannot maike the past undone. You may be assured of my regret, but what has taken plaice between Baron Gruner an' me – "

His half smoked cigarette dropped to the floor as Holmes spun round, and, to my utter astonishment, roughly cupped my face to press his lips on mine. When he let go, one could have knocked me down with a feather. It had been the first kiss since his arrival.

We closely regarded each other, breathing heavily. I was too startled by his unwonted stormy conduct to speak. Then again, I was not expected to.

"Not a word", he snarled, keeping my gaze locked with his. "Not a _word_ more."

"All right", I stammered, realizing how the upper half of my body had slightly reclined, cringing from his anger. He saw he had cowed me, and made an effort to relax.

"My sincerest apologies." He cast down his eyes to where the cigarette lay, crushed beneath the tip of his toe. "I did not mean to let myself go, or provoke a quarrel. If we are quarreling, the fault lies with me entirely."

Now it was my turn to plunge into the distance that was between us and grab his face to draw it to mine. He responded with caution, probably afraid to loosen his temper again. His hands went around me and held me – dare I say it – lovingly. We kissed for what seemed an eternity, though we really parted after a minute or two. Annie and her children were still close by.

"Good Gracious", I ejaculated. "I missed ya so much."

His smile was fleeting at best. "I still have news to impart. I just hoped to deliver myself of two things before I begin."

"Yes?" I asked curiously.

"I already gave you the one." A tinge of colour appeared in his pale cheek. "This is the other. Merry Christmas."

His hand had delved into the lining of his waistcoat, coming out with a narrow sheath.

"Oh, Sherlock…!"

I gave him the you-shouldn't-have look before I hastily appropriated and opened it. There was a set of earrings – large, glamorous, small emeralds set in beaten silver, and with several factions dangling from a central stone.

"How wonderful!" I gasped, and presented my knuckled for him to peck, but he only briefly touched them with his lips and then almost pushed my hand aside, as impatient as may be.

"Kitty, you seem to possess no curiosity at all. This concerns the fates of Gruner, Miss Cribb, Natasha Orlansky and, not least, your own, and you refuse to be wildly interested. This is nothing short of frustrating."

"Oh. I'm listenin' now."

"Good. Hear, then, what occurred." He inclined forward and took the earrings, fixing them to my earlobes as he recounted.

oooOOOooo

"Gentlemen." Baron Gruner was all suavity. However, he refrained from commenting on the presence of two women in his study, women he knew to be his adversaries. His gaze only briefly grazed Betsy's face, denying her any sign of recognition. The charwoman, as far as he was concerned, might have been a hat-rack or a sideboard for all the attention he bestowed on her.

"It is my privilege. So, we do meet again, , don't we? Please to be seated."

"We won't stay long", Holmes replied cautiously. The dim light of the room presented Gruner to his best advantage, but the mutilation of his face was not to be overlooked, much less the lethal expression it sported. Next to him, he felt Lestrade wince.

"As you wish. Gentlemen, I have neglected business of some importance to met this appointment, and I should be glad if we could directly and definitely settle affairs."

"t wull prove worth your while, Baron."

Holmes without further ado waved his hand at the charwoman to step forward into the circle of light the shaded lamp cast on the floor. She was apparently loath to do so, keeping her eyes down to evade the Baron's.

"Do you know this lady?"

"Indeed, I do not."

"But you did know Natasha Orlansky, didn't you?"

"So, this is a cross-examination."

The man with the marred face stepped up to him, quite close, but Holmes refused to flinch. He held himself quite erect, his intent look invariably directed at Gruner, until his antagonist relente with a low chuckle.

"Well then, Mr. Holmes. Ask your questions. I reckon you have full support of our worthy police."

He negligently jerked his head at Lestrade, who appeared extremely uncomfortable with the whole situation. Still chuckling, Gruner flung himself down into his club seat, throwing all pretence at politeness to the winds.

"I had an affair with her, as you know damn well, Mr. Sleuthhound. But that was many years ago, and we parted consensually."

"You abandoned her", Holmes stated coldly, but the Baron merely smiled. "The girl was unstable. Whatever my reasons for parting with her, they are on no account your business, Mr. Holmes."

"You talked her into causing her own death."

"I did nothing of the kind."

"We know you called upon her on her last day. This woman here saw you enter and leave the building."

"How nonsensical. If we were to believe any hopped off shrew that just happened to be mopping close to a scene of tragedy…"

"Tragedy? You induced her death, on purpose. Miss Orlansky was, as you say, mentally unstable, and could not be relied on for the preservation of her own welfare. It was easily done, for you had this great, great influence on her."

"Love, Mr. Holmes?" Gruner languidly lit a cigar.

"Yes. She loved you, She always had and still did, as you could plainly see that night you met at the opera."

"Mr. Holmes…" Gruner drawled, inhaling quietly and puffing thick shrouds of smoke. "It may be you are speaking the truth, in some respects. Natasha Orlansky tended to be – shall we say, perseverant in her attachments. However, I seem to remember that the scene you refer to was chiefly instigated by your wife, the former Miss Kitty Winter. I take it _she _does not indulge in continual affections for me?"

Holmes ignored that. "You provoked her suicide. It may not in itself be a deed to be legally pursued, but it was certainly a loathsome act no gentleman would ever descend to perpetrate."

"I had no reason to bear her grudge", the other man said, tersely now he gradually lost patience.

"That's true, Mr. Holmes", Lestrade guardedly put in.

"Pshaw, Inspector. Baron Gruner did not require one, other than forging a connection between my wife and the death of her best friend."

"And how would I achieve that?" Gruner asked sardonically, his head tilted to the side.

"Come now you did, didn't you?" A female voice suddenly leashed the air in the room with a vicious smack. Betsy spoke for the first time, out of turn, as Holmes thought with raising eyebrows, but speak she did, and in disfavor of her former lover.

"You planned all along to put something incriminating Kitty Winter in Natasha's suite. When I found that letter, however, it suited your purpose even better, being genuine. A compromising document, as if measured for your ends…"

"Shut your mouth, woman."

The ghastly grey eyes glittered angrily. "Nobody asker your opin – "

"No, no, do go on, Miss Cribb", Holmes encouraged her."This is most enlightening."

Betsy did not require his prompts. Her thin frame shivered with rage; her closed fists clutching into her skirts, steely blue eyes glistened to rival those of the Baron. "But together with that stroke of luck came a problem, isn't it? This affair about the letter put me into your confidence, and I came to know all about your vile proceedings. I would have kept silent, mind you. I would have defended you to the last, but you did not trust me with your guilty secrets, did you now? This is the work of your bloodhounds!"

She pulled down her collar with one hand, lying bare the vicious cuts and strokes on her neck where the assailants had clumsily attempted to pinpoint her aorta.

"I thought you cared for me. Not much, naturally, I am no fool, but I did not think it possible you would put me in a situation where my life depended on rescue through Sherlock Holmes!"

The detective closed his eyes, missing a beat as he pictured Kitty performing the exactly same movement, that day they had called on Violet Merville to dissuade her from marriage with the Baron. There had to be an end to this. Too many young women's necks ad hearts had been ravaged in this vein.

"Miss Cribb, pray compose yourself. Your feelings are quite natural, but I must ask you now to adhere to the facts as they are."

"Go to hell!" The girl was foaming, her pretty face distorted by wrath and the profound disappointment of a self-interested mind. "All of you! But you – " she pointed her finger at Gruner, who slowly rose and worked a hand into the pocket of his dinner jacket," – will pay. They shall hear all about it."

"Really?" Gruner all but gnashed his teeth at her. "Inspector, I fail to understand this woman's ravings. If she cannot bear being deserted, she ought to shun the company of men. I wash my hands of her. The fact is, I have been severely damaged and degraded by Mrs. Holmes, but this is all over and forgotten now. Since I haven't made efforts at taking revenge in many years, you must recognize the ridicule of these aspersions."

"Kitty ruined you!", Holmes barked. "A man cannot forget such a thing, much less can he forgive, not when he is daily reminded by his mirror, and certainly not a man of your disposition. When even your charms failed to work with her and instead of pining for you, she laughed at you ate the opera, your motive for revenge became manifest."

"You're twaddling", Gruner shot back, his jaws still clenched together, belying his efforts at nonchalance. "Kitty Winter to me is nothing bar the fading memory of a rather shapely – "

He could not finish his sentence, for in an outburst of jealous feelings and indignation, the other man flung himself at him and clutched his throat. A hot combat ensued, with Lestrade and the terrified charwoman as helpless onlookers, while Betsy stood by with glowing eyes.

The struggle was over when Gruner managed to retrieve from his jacket the revolver whose existence Holmes had already suspected. He backed up, and defiantly rose from the floor, holding Gruner's gaze as the older man staggered to his feet.

"Fine", he hissed, pointing the gun at everyone in turns. "Now you'll leave my house, all of you. Do not dare to return, unless it's with an official warrant. Good day to you."

Holmes exchanged glances with Lestrade, who had instinctively raised his hands. Silently, they agreed on beating a retreat. But again, Betsy's voice chimed up without warning.

"You never did it of your own accord!"

"I've warned you, woman!" the Baron whispered, poisonous as a viper.

"You did it for him, didn't you? He paid you well to disgrace and endanger Kitty – "

"Do not go on, Miss Cribb", Lestrade cautioned her, but Holmes raised his head, catching a feverishly excited glance from Betsy.

"It was he! Gruner was only his intermediary – "

"Shut up, Betsy!"

" – so he went about it with his personal grudge as only a secondary motiv – "

"Hold your tongue, if you love your life."

Betsy hesitated briefly; then drew deep breath. "It was my – "

Gruner turned on his heel and shot her.

**Hiya!**

**I hear so little from you? Were are my faithful readers? I would like your opinion!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	84. Chapter 84

Chapter eighty-four: Reunion

"_At that ecstatic moment/ I felt so small, so great…" Goethe's Faust_

26th December 1887

Sherlock had come to this point in the narrative when my sharp intake of breath cut him short.

"Betsy's dead?"

"Quite dead, I'm afraid. I must congratulate your mutual gentleman friend on the precision of his shot. She passed away before seconds."

I shook my head, again and again. "This seems incredible. I 'ardly dare believe ya."

"I assure you my mind lacks both the natural ingenuity and constant exercise of imagination to evolve a like scenario. What I told you I have beheld with these very eyes."

He indicated them with two sprawled fingers.

"But – but – surely he wouldn't 'ave – "

"Ah, but he has, Kitty. And this leaves us to the very intriguing questions of why, and wherefore. Why commit this crime in front of us all, in the presence of a Scotland Yarder, who arrested him in due course? It seems insanity – or conspiracy. I wager he had a very sound reason to act as he did, even if it confirms all Betsy had been able to tell us."

"So- this means they don't sustain suspicion against me anymore?"

"The official investigations have indeed undergone a marked change in course. You may safely return to London with me."

"But someone is still out there, desiring my destruction", I reasoned, leaping ahead of his cogitations.

"Yes, that is so. It seems maddening that the girl died with the identity of the great unknown adversary on her lips."

He passed his hand through his hair, which gave him a semblance of near distraction.

"Couldn't Gruner be made ter speak?"

"I have no doubt they have examined and cross-examined him over and over again – but with the smallest result. At least you are safe from him now. However, who is behind him will certainly remove him from prison in a fly-by-night fashion, but either to liquidate or to deport him to some remote branch f the Empire. We are unlikely to set eyes on him again."

I ruminated animatedly. "'it was my – '….the exact diction of 'er last words seems ter indicate we are dealing wiv a person somehow related to her. Could still be a damned wide range o' people, though. 'er bruvver, 'er neighbor, 'er post-man, the tutor she 'ad in class five…"

"Or is it…?"

The mere whisper let me raise my gaze, so much focused on my innermost reflections; and I saw him pale.

"Or is it…?" He repeated, distraught, and passed his hand over the line of his hair. Sweat beads had formed on his brow.

"What is it, Sherlock?" I softly pressed him, but he gave a short, feeble laugh.

"Oh what nonsense. It's been a long day my precious, and I'm afraid I'm seeing phantoms everywhere. Let us retire."

I stopped to hearken at the distant church bells that tolled yonder in the village, and to the little commotion it had initiated in the house. "They call ter service. My bruvver an' sister are goin' ter attend the mass with the chavvies."

"I do hope they will excuse us."

"Sure."

We traded a short glance. Going up the stairs side by side, I sensed his hand slip through my arm and sneak around my hip, reclaiming, as if it were necessary, what was no longer Baron Gruner's to enjoy.

oooOOOooo

Thus were about the occurrences which I pondered in retrospect, sitting by Sherlock's bedside in the early morning. I wondered about their meaning.

Was that really how Natasha had found her death? Had Gruner's influence on her been so persistent as not only to upset her sanity, but draw her life to a close? How much she must have loved him.

And Betsy? Why had she helped us, this selfish being, at the risk of her own skin? Had he actually succeeded to conjure such irreconcilable hatred in her? How much she must have loathed him.

But the greatest puzzle of all, to me, was the Baron himself. Why shoot Betsy? He was not the type to protect others and imperil himself. What kind of hold did they have on him? Was he afraid? Or was he, as my husband had suggested, confident that matters would be arranged for him?

Sherlock stirred, and I rose to arrange the curtains, hiding my clandestine nearness from his waking form. He did not cherish any intrusion into his privacy, even through me. I busied myself with attendance to a pot of snowdrops on the sill while the bed creaked and the sheets rustled. Then, as if in surprise, I turned around.

"Oh! You're awake."

"Hmpf." My man's critical detective eye surveyed the impression on the mattress next to where he lay, and sent a glance at me that made me blush. His taciturnity endured until he had got up, and returned from his grooming. Attired with pressed trousers and a newly-starched shirt, he re-entered our room.

"I would have you get your things packed, Kitty. Mine need not be unpacked, as matters stand. We shall return to London today."

"Awready!" My countenance sagged. "You on'y jus' arrived!"

"I'm afraid it is inevitable. No time must be lost."

"I don't un'erstand."

His rash decision, disregardful of my wishes, peeved me. "It's very impolite toward me people. The kids'll be disappointed."

"They will have to do without you", he returned blandly, slipping on his waistcoat and fixing his watch chain to it.

"But it is you, as well as I, they are happy to 'ave in th'house!" I ejaculated, anticipating the confused impression that spread on his features. As of course, Holmes had not grasped the delight little Fanny took in his presence, much less the vivid interest with which he had inspired my sister's lads when last night he had recounted his previous bog-experiences connected with the Hound of the Baskervilles. The children had taken to him, but that lay without the ken of his perception.

"Oh, tut-tut. Kitty, we can return for a visit any time, as soon as our affairs in England are settled. And we'll be able to furnish them with a play companion, then."

"Aye…." I lowered my eyes, sadly. "They's so much I wanted ter show ya…the hills…the cove…the light house at Mizzen Head. We might 'ave 'ad a a picknick o'er there, watching fer seals…"

"Another time, perhaps." He briefly interrupted his preparations to curl a consoling arm around my shoulders, and I yielded to him, as he had taught me to do.

oooOOOooo

The farewell was a painful one. The children were consternated and my siblings displeased. It was not spoken out loud, but I easily traced the offence they took in their long faces and stiff embraces. I did not bother too much about Annie, but Jonathan's parting words hit me hard: "It's you fer London, then? I wish ye well, sister. For Annie an' me, they's nothing like 'ome. We'll rest our ol' bones in this dear country. But I aways felt you was kinda different."

Yes, I felt myself what he said, and he did not mean it to hurt me, but it hurt all the same. I looked at the old house and I had a presentiment I would never come back to see it again. Had my roots been severed, then? Had I become Mrs. Catherine Holmes, in soul as well as in name?

My husband offered me little solace. He was impatient to get away, and heeded not little Fanny's sobs nor the melancholic waving of Buddy's chubby hand. His brow was drawn and his mouth set, and he did not look back as we turned round the curb and passed the gate into the wood. It meant nothing to him.

I did not endeavour to penetrate his solitary musings. They were not of the cheerful sort; that was plainly to be seen. He would let me know in time what had shortened our stay, and I – well, I was left to my own regretful thoughts. Aye, perhaps it was better that way. My child was due in a couple of months, and although I had greater faith in the medical men of my home country than Holmes, but the surroundings of a great London hospital would still fill me with greater confidence, plus, I preferred, if I were to be honest, to be at what I had eventually come to regard as my home.

Alas! But the elegiac sentiments that haunted me during our drive through the country could not be diminished by such consolation. Would I ever meet again with my kindred? Or had my final implantation in English soil worked a rift in between me and my people? Oh, the beauties of Ireland! I fancied I saw my dear mother among her friends down on the beach as we drove along the cove, though it probably was only some poor women of the local fisher folk. Oh, it ought to be me standing yonder on the cliff, hair slashed by the gust, the salty spray of the sea on my face, a pale face but a soul of fire, my mother's soul, the soul of Ireland!

Adieu, adieu, adieu! I might now be part of Albion. But _Éire_ would always be a part of me.

oooOOOooo

The passage was stormy. I conceived a wild idea that we would founder – that they would not let me go. But the sea had smoothed by the time the coast came in view, and assumed an appearance of a burnished silver plate. I experienced one last moment of misgivings and unease when at Bristol pier, our papers were being checked, however, no command at arrest was immediately forthcoming, and I sighed my deep felt relief.

We spent the night at a local inn. I tried to make conversation with my taciturn fellow traveler at dinner, but he refused to abandon his reserve. It made me tense and awkward in turn, and he failed to realize it until we were in bed later in the evening. I did my best to pretend all was right. Cradled in his arms, I let his long hands slip in between mine and splay my fingers, I nestled my head to his and slowly moved along with him. He murmured softly into my ear as was his custom, incoherently, comfortingly, conciliatorily. But it was futile. I could not let go, the remaining awareness kept nagging.

_Why can't you confide in me? Why can't you share things with me?_

"Kitty…Kitty…."

His thumb traced my palm, a familiar, reassuring gesture. I felt his breath tingling on my nape. I closed my eyes, tried to let myself fall.

_Why can't you? Confide in me?_

He dug his teeth into my neck, just beneath my ear. "Oh, Lord…." I inhaled sharply. He quickened his pace.

His hands abandoned mine, clutching at my neckline, pressing my half-covered breasts. His thumbnail scratched over my exposed bud.

_Confide? In me?_

God, I was close. His ragged breath told me it would not be long now.

_Trust! Confide! _

I could not come back to the old heights. Instead, I meowed a well-nigh faux climax when he spent himself, hands clawed into my flesh. My innermost was still throbbing when with a shivering groan, he collapsed next to me. I lay quite still, listening to his accelerated inhalation. My thighs were luxuriantly covered in his semen. He had noticed nothing.

Or so I thought. When he had recovered himself, hands stealing back to stroke my smudged limbs; I dared to shift a little so as to face him, and met with a wry smile. It instantly made me feel uncomfortable.

"What is it?"

"You must excuse, I am afraid, those advanced in years, my darling." His words had the ring of a scoff to them, but his eyes spoke earnest regret. "It would appear that I am unable, as of late, to advance my young wife's pleasure. Surely, I am becoming a repellent old man in your eyes?"

"Nah, 's not that", I harrumphed, turning my back on him again.

"So?" He pinched my ear, propping himself up n his elbow. "What, then?"

"Nothin'", I growled, but he would not leave it at that.

"I think I know what is wrong with you. You are being your little obstinate self, aren't you? You're angry with me for dragging you out of your family home without notice, and for giving no reasons for my conduct. Well, I can understand you are in a huff. But up to now, I should expect you to trust in my decisions, as they generally have excellent reasons at their bottom. Is that not so?"

"I jus' don't see why you can't for once try to maike me un'erstand!" I ejaculated, scrambling to my knees so as to be on one eye level with him. "Wha's so terrible in communication? I fink that I, in turn, can be trusted to a discrete treatment of confidential information!"

He simply laughed at me. "My dear child, even if it were so, I would not run the risk that such knowledge should get you at the enemy's aims. You recall the Ripper murders, I dare reckon? Well, it's just like that. You are, I am sorry, not always to be relied on. "

"But they's somefink else this time!" I cried hot-headedly. "I can see it all the time. Ye're concerned, yes you are, do not deny it! They's more to yer secrecy than peril."

He made no further attempt at humor. I could see from his expression that I had struck home.

"Kitty…" he began, then fell silent. His eyes cast down, he reached for my hand and placed a ruminative kiss on it. "You are a most perceptive woman", he finally remarked. "Yes, there is something personal in this, and I should not have presumed to be able and hide it from you. It's a matter not only dangerous, but also painful to relate to, but do not doubt you will, in time, hear all about it. For the present, let it be enough that you are a lady worthy of my love – in mind as well as in heart."

This was the greatest praise to my intellect he had issued so far, and I was silenced by it. Be it by his calculation or no, but we fell asleep without referring to the matter again. Late in the night, we awoke from the drip-drop of falling rain and made love once more, and in the morning left early for our train to the capital. Nothing more was said concerning our falling out, and we reached Paddington by 11.30.

**Hey hey! Are you happy about the chapter? I'm sorry to keep you waiting so long, but that's just life. I hope to get the story finished within the year, anyway.**

**Welcome to my new readers/reviewers, and to the old ones: Keep at it!**

**Love, Mrs.f**


	85. Chapter 85

Chapter eighty-five: Another empty house case

"_Seek to bewilder men – that is my view. But satisfy them? That is hard to do!"Goethe's Faust_

26th December 1887

„Mrs. Holmes! We have been missing you, madam." Mrs. Hudson precipitated herself into my arms ever before they were at liberty, and it was my husband's part to divest them of my various valises, bags and hat boxes, so that I had at least the chance to return and scramble out from beneath our landlady's affections.

"An' I you, Mrs. 'udson. 'ow 'as life treated you? I trust you are well?"

"I am indeed, and I can see that you are. It's coming along wonderfully!" she exclaimed, with reference to my swelling tummy.

Holmes followed us with the baggage, coughing suggestively, but we did not let ourselves be interrupted in our baby chat. Mrs. Hudson had reared two sons herself, but lost both in combat against the Boers, and I found it natural and quite moving that she should take such an interest in our progeny. I helped her unpack and at my husband's request lay down for a couple of hours to relax my aching back after the stressful voyage.

When I awoke, Sherlock had gone out, but left a note to the effect that we were to have dinner with the Watsons. This left me some spare time, and I knew how I wanted to spend it. I put on a woolen oversized dress and headed straight for the _Cock& Horse_ pub, Sevendials.

oooOOOooo

There are some places in this world that don't ever change. The _Cock&Horse_ is one of them. There was the same old green door with its fading golden letters on it, and right as rain there was Ernie McAlester standing behind the counter and wiping glasses, giving me a jovial "Wotcher, Kit!" as though my life had not turned through 360 degrees, as though I had not been wanted for murder, had not closely escaped the police into exile and had not returned with a belly twice as big as when last I called. And yet, all was still the same around here.

I exchanged embraces and handshakes with the few boys hanging around here so early in the day, and sat down by Ernie's side, ordering my usual half and half, or as we Cockneys used to term it, a cow and calf.

"Say, Kit", Ernie began after a while when we had a moment quite to ourselves, "What's tha' never-endin' story wiv tha' evil geezer o' yers? I un'erstand 'e's banged up in boom, but still the trouble ain't finished, ain't I right? 'ow's that possible, I wonder? 'E still got 'is chaps around?"

"Can't tell yer anything, much as I'd like ter, Ern", I replied cautiously, sipping on my drink. Sherlock's accusations of indiscretion were still fresh on my mind, and I had no wish to mess everything up for the second time. "All I re'lly knows fer meself is that the danger's far from o'er. I needs ter watch out, be on me guard. I can't tell what 'olmes is about ter do."

"I don't like it Kit", Ernie said thoughtfully. "Honest, I liked it better when you was o'erseas an' outta the bodge. As I sees it, somefink's gotta be done an' the sooner the better, ey? Now, I knows yer Mr. 'olmes is re'lly corking. If 'e can't figger a way out, it's none what can do it. But it won't be doddle it won't, an' if they's a crib in this 'ole business fer ol' Porkey or fer me, I jus' wants yer to know that we're yer men."

"Aye, I knows that", I muttered, casting my thoughts back at the Ripper case, and the help the boys had tried to be, though they had – unwittingly – steered me into the affair in the first place. "Thanks a bunch, Ern. I 'ppreciate that."

We regarded each other with inert mutual emotion and gratefulness, until Ernie grew uncomfortable and broke the silence.

"Anyways. What's it that ya _can_ tell me 'bout yer wicked Baron? Now 'e's laid by the heels, I 'xpect they's not much harm in talkin'. Wan't 'e the 'un what asked yer to read out 'is diary while 'e was 'avin' a Barclays?"

"Erniiiiiiieee!" I formed a grimace, put off by the grotesque memory. I suppose he would have pushed me on to any degree of nausea, just to conceal his embarrassment, had it not been for Porkey who suddenly entered the scene.

He saw me, and stood as if fixed to the floor, arms hanging down on either side, so that he closely avoided brushing a row of glasses from a nearby table.

"'ave a butchers", I said lamely.

"Aye." He sounded hoarse.

"C'mon, me chavies, don' let us 'ave all tha' fuss. Taike the lass an' press 'er t'yer 'eart", Ernie helpfully proposed.

Before either of us was able to act on his suggestion, however, there was a shrill, ringing sound cutting through the pub's peaceful atmosphere.

"Wha#s that?" Porkey and I spluttered simultaneously, and the wide grin of a proud father cleft Ernie's face.

"Tha's a wide distance telephonic apparatus, that is", he explained importantly, as if the device were of his very own invention.

"A telephone set? In this 'ere plaice?"

Apparently, time had not stood still even in the _Cock&Horse_ pub in this technology-smitten age.

"I got meself tha' babe on'y las' week", Ernie boasted. "Cost me a solid grand. The bod what set it up fer me said…"

"You better answer that", I reminded him, anxious lest the story should proceed.

"Yeah…ye`re roigh as rain, ye are…"

The landlord hurried behind the counter; obviously afraid his great moment might be spoiled. Porkey and I exchanged glances, tongue in our cheeks.

"The Cock&Horse pub, Sevendials. This is Ernie McAlester speakin'", he announced, telling the talking from the hearing piece more by accident than by anything else, as far as I could see.

"Keep yer bubbles in check", Porkey advised me under his breath, but I could see he was having a hard time keeping a straight face over Ernie's conversation.

"Aye…yes, yes, she's 'ere, guv'nor, standin' next ter me as I speak. Yeah, I'm talkin' on the telephone…this is me, McAlester. I'm the owner of th'plaice an'….yeah, I'll give word to Miss Kitty. Count on me….aye. Good day t'you, guv."

I pricked my ears when my name fell, having a hunch as to who the caller might be. How on earth was it that Sherlock's information should always be up to date and ahead of mine, even where my friends were concerned? The man was driving me mad, but I could not help admiring his – well, whatever it was. My suspicion was justified when Ernie put down the receiver.

"Tha's been yer ol' man, Kit."

"Did 'e mention 'ow the deuce 'e knew I was 'ere? Oh, never mind. What's 'e want, then?"

"Heaps o' weird stuff." Ernie wa shaking his head, more than usually befuddled. "Listen Kitty, what ye're s'pposed ter do is this: Walk outta the door, then turn right an' head straight down Macklin Street, until ya reaches the small green on Drury Lane corner. Count the fourth poplar from the left, then walk ahead for fifty metres an' up ya goes on th' fire stairs on top o' th'ouse. Cross the roof an' turn through 120 degrees, then jump down the brick wall an' land on the garbage bags on the lower level. Descend the spiral staircase an' traverse the back yard, then enter the 'ouse by the servant's entrance. Down the corridor, an' up the secon' stairs on yer right, an' finally through the door wiv the gilt 'andle. There ye're t'wait fer him."

Porkey and I had listened with dropping countenances, lips gaping increasingly apart.

"Gawd, I _do_ 'ope I got that right", Ernie mumbled nervously. "'e was a li'le curt, yer hubby."

"Why, 'e's plain crackers!" I exclaimed, having recovered my ability of speech. "What's it in 'm that a'way's gets our schedule in a muddle? Why, we was ter 'ave dinner wiv friends! An' me jumping down on garbage bags!"

"Oh, 'e said if ya was unsure 'bout that bit – court'sy to that li'le nipper, I figger – then ya could skirt the jump, usin' the ladder on the north side o' th'ouse", Ernie added dutifully. "An' ya must lose no time. Those were 'is orders."

"Right", I sighed, preparing myself for a delusional paper chase through the neighbourhood, but Porkey barred my way.

"Wait. I fink ya should not do this in a rush, Kit. It might be a trap. Ya never knows, wiv these telephones. Who says it was re'lly yer boiler down that line?"

"Sounded loike 'im", Ernie said, hesitating.

"Yeh, maybe it was 'im awright. But maybe it wan't. I'm not fer sendin' out the lass unprotected loike. Remember las' time when tha' scallywag tricked us all into abandoning you…"

Ernie joined Porkey in making a dubitative face, but I laughed them away.

"It's alright, boys, 'ave no fear." They looked at me in surprise, but my reassuring smile was genuine. "None but 'olmes would fink up such a monkey business."

oooOOOooo

I had Ernie repeat the instructions that had been entrusted to him before I went on my way. The first part was easy. I traced most of Macklin Street ere the predicted greenery came into my vista. Counting the fourth poplar from the left, I measured fifty metres with my steps and met with the fire stairs as anticipated. Slowly, I ascended it. Huh, it wasn't an easy task to perform. I wondered what the man had been thinking, sending me on a wild goose chase in my condition. My belly somehow seemed to always be in my way, but anyhow, I made it to the roof unscathed. Thus far for the best. My breath in uneasy puffs, I marched across the flat roof beneath a flutter of clean laundry.

There, the brick wall limited the place. I closed my eyes and tried to figure out how much 120 degrees were, but gave up and opened them again. Down there, the garbage bags! I stood on the brink and peered down, faltering. It wasn't very high, but it wasn't too low either, and so I decided to take the roundabout way, just in case. Having arrived in the dingy yard, I crept into the shadows of the back house. Where was I? Why had he ordered me to be here? And what was waiting for me inside this house – whose house was it? With no answer to any of these questions, I entered by the back entrance, just hoping that my progress would not be hampered by some unpleasant encounter, be it human or canine. Being frazzled or arrested as a trespasser were among the things I currently had the least desire to experience.

I was in luck, however, or maybe things had been accordingly prearranged, for nobody safe myself came down the long, dark hallway. In any event, the house appeared to be deserted. I thought about a hide-away, a storage place for illicit wares; the lair of an arch criminal. Surely, he would not have sent me if there was danger in this – or would he?

I would not get wise by tarrying. Counting the second stair on my left, I climbed up to the first floor. The dusty steps creaked ominously beneath my soles. I felt an urge to sneeze, but subdued it, afraid to alarm whatever might be lurking in the dark recesses of the house. Heaven's, what a lot of dust! Upstairs, I was faced by three doors. They were old and dun coloured, one of them hanging in its hinges. The middle door only presented a golden handle to me, a mat glint in the gloom. I reached for it with trembling fingers.

The door responded easily, it slowly swung open with a long stretched crunch. The room behind was bare and extensive with a low ceiling, illuminated by a single candle on a stool. I entered, ready to withdraw at a second's notice, with diminutive steps. Within the radius of this single source of light, I was able to cast around a searching glance. It afforded me the perception that the place was not, after all, completely unfurnished: Bar the stool on which the stump of wax was placed, one of the chamber walls was almost completely covered by a tarnished old looking-glass. Stepping quite in front, I discovered, albeit the ancient mirror had nearly lost its reflective power, that I was not the only woman in the room. There were two.

**Hullo! Are you all still around? I wonder what you may be thinking about Holmes' latest antics. How will they help to solve the mystery of the Great Unknown that grasps for Kitty with malevolent hands? And who is the second woman in the room? I'd love to have your ideas!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	86. Chapter 86

Chapter eighty-six: The Great Unknown

My surprise was, I think, not undue. I had reckoned on meeting my husband, but although I knew about his cunning when it came to disguise, it was physically impossible for him to impersonate the creature I spied in the blurry mirror.

She was remarkably small, elderly, to judge by her figure, for she was wearing black with a black veil across her face, hiding her features from me as if they were more unsightly than any I had beheld so far. And maybe that was right. I dimly recalled a story Sherlock had told me about his interview with a veiled lady that turned out to be very repulsively disfigured by the blow of a lion's paw. But after all, that was no obstacle to communication, so I boldly addressed her.

"Who may ye be, marm? Was ye told ter wait fer some'un in this 'ere room?"

No reply. She stood as still as a wax sculpture. I hesitated. Perhaps she was a little deaf. Moving closer, I raised my voice and asked: "Did Mr. 'olmes tell ya ter meet 'im in 'ere? What's yer business, may I ask? My name is Kitty. Do I know ye? Did I see ye before?"

There just simply was no response. I motioned as close to her ear as I could without intruding, and cried: "Who are you? What are ye doin' 'ere?"

"Kitty!" The door I had left ajar suddenly opened, and I recognized my husband's stern voice behind my back. With a tiger's leap, he was by my side and dragged me away from the immovable person as though I were a very naughty child. "For heaven's sake, be silent!"

"This presumably is the girl, Mr. Holmes", a hard, metallic voice observed behind the curtain of black lace.

"Indeed, ma'am." Sherlock turned towards the woman, extremely polite and deferential, as I noted with surprise and disgust. "This is my wife, the former Miss Kitty Winter. You must excuse her behavior."

His words stung like nettle, but they also set me seething. My? My behavior? And what kind of behavior was that, standing still like a photograph when you were being addressed with perfect respect? It seemed to me that I had conducted myself very natural.

"Obviously." There fell a silence during which I was more or less aware of an evaluating glance directed at me through several layers of dark tissue. "Mr. Holmes, we have been waiting I this place overlong. Hopefully you can provide something that is worth our valuable time."

We? She ought to be speaking for herself. I, for my part, had only just arrived, and I was convinced of the worth of my husband's information, however long one might be obliged to wait. What did this arrogant old bird mean in presuming to question his capacity? And when would she deign to introduce herself?

"I regret having exposed you to such circumstances, ma'am, but you will yourself find the reason for our meeting rewarding your trouble. I have fully informed you, I think, as to the danger threatening the future of my family."

"You have mentioned certain hostile actions having been committed against the girl, yes."

"Quite so. Now, ma'am, it is my belief that the anonymous person which has been declared to be behind all this is someone very well known to me."

"Yes, yes. This you have insinuated in your letter."

"There. I have someone to blame for the prosecution that has been suffered by my wife and myself during the past months. I am speaking, of course, of my brother."

"Mycroft?" I ejaculated, but I might as well have been a washing-stand or a cabinet. They took no notice of me.

The veiled woman, so far as I could conceive, was put out by Sherlock's words. "No, no, no, Mr. Holmes! We've had this over and over again during the past six months. We're not prepared to discuss Mycroft Holmes yet again!"

So, her "we" meant a pluralis majestatis. Quite high and mighty, the little hag! I had hoped that whatever our dealing with her, it would be brief and this once only, but evidently, I was to be disappointed.

As to the mention of my brother-in-law, I was stupefied. Had it been so easy? Had the mystery's solution been lying open beneath our noses, with us too dumb to recognize our antagonist's signature?

Sherlock had been suspecting something, I suddenly recalled. He had suspected it ever since the day before yesterday, that means, Christmas Eve, when he had pronounced doubt about an idea that had surfaced in his mind. He had not been sure about it right then and there, but I felt a conviction that he had come to a conclusion since. But what were my own thoughts about the hypothesis?

Surely, there were some points in favour of it. It would have taken someone with a profound political influence to get the police movements going, and Baron Gruner did not possess this influence. Plus, he had acknowledged some superior agency behind his actions, and Mycroft was just the man it would take to bully Adalbert into cooperation. He might have known something about his crimes, or he might have promised him a reward of some kind, a woman he was after perhaps, or some treasure of china to add to his collection. What was it Betsy had cried out with the last of her breath? _It was My-…_

But Mycroft, I recalled, little as he esteemed me, bore me no personal grudge. He had said so when trying to join forces with me against Sherlock. Then again, I might be counted as a benefit to my husband's life, much as I was prone to complicate and confuse it. He had declared his love for me, and what was even more, at least in the eyes of someone like Mycroft, I was carrying his baby. Meaning, if the man really were aiming at my destruction, it was not for my sake, but that of his younger brother…

"Pray let me explain myself, ma'am", my husband said with a ring of exasperation, and the woman hesitated.

"Do", she exacted after a moment's thought, and Sherlock lost no second in his reply.

"Of course, I well remember the affair to which you refer, ma'am. There is, as you probably have conceived, a connection between the mining misfortune and my wife's difficulties with the police."

"Explain", the insufferable shrew demanded, and Holmes breathed in deeply.

"Let me put it thus, then. I am fairly persuaded that Catherine's being wanted for murder is a direct result to my interference with Mycroft's misdeeds. You are aware, of course, that we are expecting a child within the course of a few months. A successful prosecution might have resulted in my wife's death, an unsuccessful one in either a life of separation or in driving me out of England as well. You can see that every possible outcome bar the actual one – attained only through the utmost exertions on my part - of the accusations would be extremely in Mycroft's interest.

First, he is bent on taking revenge. No, ma'am, I beg your pardon, I know him far too well for being in doubt. I have been a fool not to anticipate it. Second, and more importantly, if his aspersions had been successful, Catherine's name would have been tarnished forever, and mine with it. I could not go on practicing on a large scale with the public knowing my spouse as a murder suspect, but that's only a trifle. Mycroft wished to diminish, shall we say, the weight of my word with you, and thereby enhance his own influence."

I could bear it no longer.

"Tha's enough now, re'lly! Sherlock, who the heck is this person? Why ain't I properly introduced? Why d'ye talk 'bout me loike I'm not there, eh? I knows perfec'ly well what kind o' behavior is polite and what isn't, an' you two are behavin' dreadful, there!"

If looks could kill, I would have dropped to the floor inanimate the moment my husband turned at me. His brows were severely contracted, and his lips mouthed a reprehension I apparently was supposed to understand, but I didn't, I just felt I was being treated like an especially stupid child.

"I must ask forgiveness for us both. Pray allow me to go on, ma'am. Do not mind her."

His humbleness infuriated me further, but obviously, I was not permitted the use of my tongue, for the lady in black interrupted him harshly.

"None of that, Mr. Holmes. You are bound to tell her in any event, will you not? It does not matter at all. Come here, my child. Come here quickly."

The words were not apt to relieve the impression I had received of my treatment, but I gave no reply and just did as I was told. It proved to be for the best.

I stood by her as close as I had when shouting at her – God help me! – and she lifted her veil for a short instance only.

"Gol' darn – " I swore, interrupting myself in time to prevent further disgrace for my husband.

The features were familiar to me. Quite familiar. The veil went back in its place.

I stood back, absolutely hushed. There was a moment of general silence, until Sherlock sighed. "Well. These are such reasons as I can give for my conviction, and I hope, ma'am, that you will consider them and arrive at the conclusion that there may be more to my brother than meets the eye. Surely, by the time the accident had been reported to you, you had realized – "

"Mycroft Holmes has been a loyal and reliable auxiliary to us", the woman interrupted him, with an impervious, yet thoughtful drone. "His cooperation is valuable and hardly to be replaced. He has been there at our disposal in times of great need – times when your own assistance was denied, Mr. Holmes. We are very grateful for that."

Sherlock wished to interpose, however, the dwarfish dame did not let him have his say.

"On the other hand", she elaborated, her thin, metallic voice slightly raised, "You are correct in assuming that our trust in Mr. Mycroft has been considerably shaken by the news from the mine and his various other unauthorized actions. We cannot tolerate such conduct. We cannot support those who work against our aides, either, but, if proof were to be laid before us…"

"You shall have proof, ma'am", Sherlock managed to interject.

"…then we might be disposed to reassess the situation. However, it seems your chances are slim to prove that which we do not easily conceive as possible. We demand absolute, watertight perfection of evidence, or we won't be able to take action against anyone."

Absolute proof? She required absolute proof? She might just as well have told us that she was not prepared to do anything in our interest. How could we hope to exhibit Mycroft as a traitor and a fraud? And yet, Sherlock seemed to have hope, for he stood tall at the request and put a brave face to it.

"I quite understand, ma'am, and I won't waste your valuable time by causing need for repetition. There is a possibility to provide that which you ask, but it will need some concessions on your part. If you'll allow, I would like to introduce both you and my wife to the details of the plan I entertain. Kitty, dear, will you continue to be silent and listen? And will you be ready to take part in the scheme, even if it involves details which are, no doubt, repellent to you?

He was asking much in wanting my assent to something the minutiae if which I still ignored, but it was not the first time, and he knew the question to be a rhetorical one. I inclined my head, wordlessly.

"Thank you. And will you, ma'am, consent to hearing me out and in case you don't approve of it or cannot accept its validity, not speak to anyone about it, neither to Mycroft nor anyone else?"

The lady appeared mildly affronted by my husband's audacity of talking, and for a moment I thought she would break of communication, but as much authority as she might possess, Holmes possessed yet more, of a different, subtler kind. It was his nature, dominant, but suave, which compelled people to comply with him. She nodded her wizened head as mute as I.

"Splendid." The old fire of enterprise had returned to Sherlock's eyes, and his thin cheeks showed light pink spots that betrayed his inner hysteria. "The idea at the bottom of my plan, you understand, is this. We must needs consider the psychology of the people involved, namely…."

oooOOOooo

The conspiracy went on for about and hour, when it was brought to an end to the dame being fetched by her personal guard. She had given us all the time she could spare, and we had to be content with that.

Sherlock had no cab waiting, but we could easily manage on foot from our starting point, and within half an hour had returned home. Holmes was not loquacious as a rule, but seldom had I found him less accessible to interrogation or even chit-chat. He had spent himself in the discussion of our plan of action, and now had relapsed into a gloomy mood that made non-grunt replies rarer even than his smiles. I had long accepted it as my lot, and took no offence.

Back in Baker Street, however, I changed my dress, mindful of our invitation to the Watsons, and rushed down to Sherlock's room, expecting him to be ready and waiting for me. On the contrary, he was sitting listlessly in his shirtsleeves, dragging the bow of his violin across the strings as though the very weight of it were overcharging his strength.

"Darling?" I hesitated, apprehensive lest his humour might suddenly effervesce and strike out at me with the fierceness that usually took me by surprise.

He completed his woebegone composition at his leisure, not deeming it necessary to turn around and face me. "Didn't I tell you? I'm sure I did. I don't feel the thing tonight, and I meant to ask you to excuse me with the Watsons. Thank you."

And that was all. It left me speechless, as I had looked forward to the reunion with our best and closest friends, both of us together, and not I as the odd man out of the company. I said nothing, but it left me with a bad taste in my mouth, and like the dame from the empty room, I felt that Sherlock, unfortunately, was not always a person to be relied on.

**Hello, hello! **

**Did the elderly dame strike you as familiar, eh? I'm as yet curious about how we are going to put a stop to Mycroft's game. I'm still working it out. Looking forward to bringing you the next chapter!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	87. Chapter 87

Chapter eighty-seven: Villains to Hades

3rd of January 1880

Baron Gruner was sitting on his rather unrefined bedstead in a high-security single cell at Dartmoor. For the greater part of an hour, he had remained in this position, turning over and over in his hands a small slip of paper. It had come with his nightly serving of pap, sticking to the bowl bottom, and he had carefully cleared it from the abominable stuff, afraid of destroying the message so cunningly delivered to him. However, he had been successful in preserving it. This is what it said:

_Eleven thirty tonight, at the change of guards. _

_Be prepared._

Now, this could mean everything and nothing. Gruner was inclined to presume the latter. Something made him smell a rat in this. Then again, he had been promised safe conduct from prison. It would be a breach of agreement on the part of his co-conspirator to leave him moldering in this hole.

With an impatient toss, Gruner rid himself of the piece of paper. Now, he would take what was coming to him, committing himself to nothing until he had met _him_. _He _would certainly explain the further proceedings in person, as was usual between them.

The Baron rose and stepped on the creaking iron bedframe to peep out of the small square window. The relatively short time of his confinement had been sufficient to teach him a sense of time, relying on the position of moon and sun. The changing guards down in the yard marked the half hours. Now, it was after ten, at any rate.

He resettled on the bed, biting his nails as minutes passed by. He had no nerves, not usually, but the slackness of events had rendered him sensible to any kind of excitement that presented itself. A mouse appearing and disappearing from beneath the kerbing rib would arouse his curiosity to a degree that that exhausted his capacity for interesting himself in anything else for the rest of the day. En suite to his alarm at the message which had been so artfully smuggled into his possession, he had carefully planned his course of action in any event that might follow in its wake.

If it had been a hoax, he would keep his head down, and let the night pass in the same vein as the long, long string of preceding nights. Nobody ought to be able to say Baron Gruner had become nervy in captivity. On the other hand, he would be on his guard and prepared to meet any interference with his imprisonment, preserving silence in case of a devious pitfall his enemies might have devised for him. Could one ever be too careful? Gruner did not intend to give himself or his allies away. He would just keep calm and hope for the best.

The hours seemed longer than usual, trickling slowly away as he sat waiting. In fact, it was only half past eleven when somebody stirred at the outer side of the solid door of his cell, but to Gruner it had been an eternity since last he had checked on the position of the moon. He remained in attendance, tense and wary, while the door gradually opened and two men in jailor's uniforms appeared in his field of vision. They looked commonplace enough, these chaps, one in his thirties and the other in his fifties, but undoubtedly of the same caste, a fact that was even mirrored in their outward similarity: Chubby fists and faces, chins covered in dark stubbles, a slurring way of talking that displeased Gruner, as a man whose ear was accustomed to the velvety smoothness of Belgravia.

"C'mon, get up", the elder one told him, and the other added: "Got word, man?"

Gruner nodded mutely. The fellows eyed him with a thinly veiled show of disgust, but Gruner was too used to receive and return this sentiment to find it out of the ordinary. For heaven's sake, if _he _had descended to the depth of employing these vermin, _he _must have experienced a considerable decline in power. Hopefully the guys knew their business, at least. At any rate, they had made it into his cell, and their likeness to the other jailors at Princeton was satisfactory. If they could manage to get him out of here, he cared not about their obvious intellectual and social inferiority.

Not uttering a sound, Gruner rose from his bed as he was bidden by the wave of the elder man's hand. Slowly, he exited his cell, for the first time in months, with one fake jailor walking in front of him and the other behind. The latter closed the door carefully, making sure they left it locked, and under continual pretence at regularity, they marched him through the empty, stone-flagged corridors. Gruner wondered what they would do in case they met with someone, but nobody was coming. Only as they descended a staircase, Gruner could guess they were heading for the front of the building, rather than some clandestine backdoor. He cast a nervous, confused glance at his guard, but they calmly told him to proceed, that it was alright.

They mounted a police vehicle at the very prison entrance. Gruner fought an impulse to duck beneath the searchlights from the observation towers, but apparently he was not expected to hide away. Good gracious, there was power behind this procedure after all. _He_, in any case, was not to be trifled with – a formidable antagonist as well as a formidable ally. Gruner trembled slightly at the checkpoint, and could not help being impressed with the ease and laxity with which the younger man, sitting with him in the coupé and reaching across him, passed his undoubtedly forged papers to the guard outside.

He had to be very sure of himselfand about what he was doing, the Baron mused suspiciously. One more, he resolved to give nothing away before meeting _him _in person.

Once out of the wire-fenced compound of Princeton, they drove over bumpy roads for hours on end. The older man was driving, they heard him smack the whip on sweaty horsebacks from time to time. The younger man, Gruner's fellow passenger within the cab, did not offer any information of his own accord. He just sat back in the gloom opposite to Gruner, measuring him with contemptous glances. Only once did the Baron let himself be carried away in a high-strung: "What?!", but his counterpart merely shrugged, and they just endeavoured to ignore each other's presence.

Only one time they paused, after what came close to a two hour's drive, Gruner estimated, for the driver to get down and stretch his legs. Feeling their bladders, all three men stepped into the bushes, but even as he urinated among brambles, Gruner was aware of the intimate companionship between his fellows, and their united resentment of him. It was apparent in the way they kept to themselves, slightly apart, refusing to enter even into the superficial male camaraderie of the peeing round with him, yet observing him constantly and with suspicion. Obviously they were intent on keeping an eye on him lest he should try to break away. Had he ever seen them before, Gruner wondered, re-buttoning his trouser flap although he was fairly sure he had not. There was something fishy about them, that much was for sure. He would have to remain on the alert.

Getting back inside the hansom cab, he and his – Savior? Guardian? Abductor? – settled back into uncomfortable silence for another hour or so. Then, the vehicle came to a sudden and final halt and the driver dismounted.

"Get awt", he ordered curtly, holding open the passenger's door. Unquestioningly, Gruner disembarked after the short, thick fellow with the chubby face.

It had been dark inside the cab, so his eyes did not need to adjust to the night surrounding them. Therefore, he could easily distinguish the clear black outline of a gothic church against the murky bluish sky. In the close vicinity, large square stone blocks stuck out of the ground, some out of the perpendicular; an ancient graveyard apparently. Gruner hesitated.

"In there", the older man told him calmly, indicating the bold church door. "He'll be waitin' for ya."

The Baron advanced slowly, let his companions overtake him and open the door.

The interior of the church was brightly lit as if it still were Christmas Eve, and it was alive with men clad in cowls. Gruner could tell at a glance they were not monks. They were abuzz, active, like members of a well-organized beehive. Some were reading plans, standing gathered in small groups and discussing them vividly, others upturned the church benches to make more room, still others came hurrying to hand each of his companions their cowl they put on over their jailhouse uniforms.

Right in front, where the altar used to be, a strange sight presented itself to the newcomers. The crucifix had been taken down from the wall and erected on the pedestal, the wooden Jesus figure ripped off and cast to the side carelessly. In its stead, there was a woman chained to the cross, a woman with bare back and shoulders, her dress torn down to the waist. A group of men was standing close by, and one of them, holding a horse whip, used it from time to time on the captive; every other minute he would lash at her as though he had forgotten and wished to catch up upon his duties. Wild shrieks and howls filled the nave up to the arched ceiling.

Even though her back was turned on him, Gruner had no hard time recognizing the woman. A slow, broad grin crept over his face. Yes, that cloud of deep red hair and the creamy skin could signify only one thing: Kitty Winter had finally been delivered to _his _mercy.

Gruner watched blood trickling down her beautifully shaped shoulder blades, it ran in small rivulets down into her dress, onto her great swollen stomach. He shuddered luxuriously as the fake monk struck out at her, at the quivering of her shape, her shrill poignant cries. Perhaps, if _he _was in a fit of generosity, _he _would allow him to have his way with her after the interview. He felt himself grow hard at the thought of Kitty bent over the pewage, his hand on her nape, forcing her to present her backside. _He _would not mind, that was almost certain. But where was _he_?

Struggling to rip his gaze from the half-naked woman, Gruner shot a questioning eye at both of his attendants. "Well? Where do I meet him?"

"In there", the older man repeated, this time indicating the richly adorned confession box in the aisle. Gruner's grin deepened. At least, _he _did possess some sense of humour, even if it was rather a perverse kind.

It was dark in the box. Gruner's eyes, still aching from the spurious illumination outside, took comfort in the soothing obscurity, the absence of any visual stimuli. Impatiently, he shifted in his worn seat, until the communicating window was opened and he could discern familiar grey eyes between the ornamental woodwork that divided the face into a hundred tiny sections.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Baron." The peculiarly high voice made his hairs rise on his nape. Baron Gruner was an aesthete, and he had never listened to Mycroft's voice without resenting its dissonance. "You see my word is worth something, after all."

"Of course", Gruner hurried to affirm, avoiding too close contact with those coldly glistening eyes.

"There are a couple of things we can do for you", Mycroft drawled. The shape of his prominent nose faintly outlined against the grate. Gruner could not remember it being that pronounced. "You have performed your task very much to my satidfaction."

"Thank you, sir." Gruner faltered for a second, oscillating between caution and desire. "Indeed, there is some little favour I would like to ask from you."

"Which shall it be? Gold? Position? A transfer to the colony of your choice? I could set you up as my agent in South Africa or the United States, you know."

"This sounds – splendid, thank you. I was referring to a smaller favour, an extra, you might say. That girl out there…"

"Sherlock's wife", Mycroft pronounced slowly, his pupils narrowing with malicious astuteness.

"Precisely. Perhaps you have heard I can claim older rights to her than your brother, if you'll allow my saying so."

"Oh, please." Holmes waved him away with a grand gesture. "It's a mere trifle. You may have her and do what you like with her. I thought she might be of some amusement to my men, but if you wish it, I shall let you prevail."

"Thank you, sir. You are aware, though, that she's – "

" – five months pregnant, yes. I have been informed", Mycroft returned ironically, and again Gruner sensed a pleasurable anticipation stirring in his loins. Oh, good. Perhaps he would be allowed the whip and lay it across the slut's shoulders a couple of times. Or he could take her right there and then, slam her across the altar, fuck her so hard her little bastard would never get out of her in one piece. Mycroft's men wouldn't mind, they would welcome it as a good show.

He did not listen properly to what Mycroft said next, half his mind being focused on his intention.

"You did well, implicating her in that murder. It was murder after all, I expect?"

"Not in the strict sense. I have been talking to the woman, nothing else. I have a talent for talking to women."

"You certainly have." Mycroft sounded grimly amused. "But it was not wise to tell your female friend too much about it. Betsy was the name, wasn't it?"

"I was mistaken there", Gruner admitted negligently. He was getting anxious to hurry the interview to an end. His appetite, pent up in months of dire self-administration, was beginning to strain uncomfortably against his trouser flap.

"You have troubled me to a lot of unnecessary work", his patron observed, but Gruner hardly listened at all. Kitty was crying out loud in her agony and in spirit, he was busy shoving his member into all kinds of orifices. "That was very thoughtless. You should have taken recourse to my council, rather than deciding things on your own."

"I saw you only so rarely", Gruner muttered, "That single meeting in your office, the two times at _Kettner's_. I did not always trust my messengers to convey your council to me."

"Well, that was a very foolish notion to entertain", Mycroft said softly. "I am very disappointed on that score. I'll see to it that you get safely out of England, but that's it then. No additional benefits."

"But sir!" Gruner rebelled. "Didn't you promise me free conduct with that woman just now, didn't you declare yourself satisfied with me?"

"Did I? I'm not too sure you have deserved this reward."

"I have killed for you, Mycroft!" The Baron vociferated, forgetting himself, callng Holmes by his first name and raising his voice to him. "I have been in prison for months and I have done all I could to get your brother's wife entangled in a court procedure!"

There was a moment's pause, and Gruner was afraid he had gone too far. Eventually, however, Mycroft sighed. "If that's the way you see it, I will connive at some points. But be quick and discrete about it, we want no mess around here. There is a place in the vestry where you may go with her."

"Thank you sir." Gruner gradually relaxed, astonished he had got away so easily. "And my transport."

"Afterwards."

The grey eyes scanned him so very hauntingly that it made him quite uncomfortable. Without another word, he exited the box, glad to be out of that searching gaze. With quick, imperative strides, he crossed the vault, pushing past the men surrounding Kitty.

"Let me pass. You there! Get out of my way, I have Mr. Mycroft's permission. You may ask him if you doubt me."

He elbowed the last person out of the way and put a greedy hand on the woman's bared shoulder, using his other hand to force her face around towards him.

"Hello, Kitty", he sneered. "It's been quite a while. Are you glad to see me again, this unexpected?"

Something hard was boring into his spine at the same moment that hating Irish eyes bored into his.

"Very."

**Heyho!**

**I guess that's pretty much the end of brother Mycroft….and Gruner can go straight back to prison! Our couple is about to be relieved of the shadow that overhung their marriage. Or so we hope…**

**Love, mrs.F**


	88. Chapter 88

Chapter eighty-eight: At the Tate

6th February 1880

"_Oh what a feeling of your own greatness you must have/ as all these people honour you." Goethe's Faust_

I actually remember little from the night Gruner gave Mycroft away in that little church way down Wiltshire. His heinous face, so full of fear and dismay, drowns out everything else in my mind. I recall little things besides, such as the Defense Minister taking off the hood of his chasuble, and the secretary of the interior coming to his aid to tame my ex-lover who went berserk. I recall Sherlock putting a blanket around my shoulders before they unshackled my wrists and went to find hot water for me to wash off my fake blood in the vestry. Everything happened in a blur.

We had won, really. Gruner was re-arrested and put safely back into custody. His loud shouting in the confessional had persuaded all the politicians present of Mycroft's involvement in his crimes. Sherlock was being congratulated on his cunning and the way he had dissembled to embody his brother. I do not think he actually noticed, and I never really learned what happened to Mycroft afterwards. He just seems to have sort of disappeared from the scene.

The fact is, dear reader, that my husband succumbed to a bleak, profound, interminable depression in the weeks to follow the night in the chapel. Whether the whole affair about his brother was the reason or maybe rather the catalyst of his state remains obscure. I was recommended a specialist by Dr. Levhin, my late friend's fiancée and therapist, and I went there, but was told my efforts were pointless if I was unable to persuade the patient to active participation. This excursion of mine remained a secret, for I did not have the guts to suggest engaging professional aid to Sherlock Holmes.

It hurt, though. Little happened between us in the way of marriage, or even companionship. He seemed to have forgotten I had ever existed. I tried to cheer him, suggested open air activities and invited Watson over as often as possible without it looking weird. It did not entail much improvement. He would ignore his surroundings, or worse, he would attempt courtesy, and relapse into oblivious taciturnity.

I did not know what to do with him. Often as his psyche had been ailing, this surpassed all I had ever had to deal with. Everything was just slipping away. Sherlock was sitting in his drawing room all day, purposeless, he forgot his antipathy to Ginger Jack, and, looking out of the window, stroked his hairy belly listlessly. His own appearance was neglected, bedraggled, he, who had ever been so particular about his looks, did neither shave nor have his hair cut, and when I made an appointment with the barber, he forgot it. It meant nothing to him, not any more.

I could not share his bed these days, large as I had grown, but I knew he just turned over in his sheets at night, and sometimes he did not go to bed at all, just staring into the fireplace where glowing embers gradually expired, and there we found his in the morning, scantily covered with a thin blanket.

There was just one interruption of this new routine of his. Every other day, he put on his coat and hat and went out of the house, so distrait and absent minded I was in agonies of fear that he might have an accident. He returned each time, however, but as an answer to questions where he had been, he just stared blankly. Whispered conversations pervaded the house, murmurs behind raised hands, solicitous glances, exchanged looks. It was not to be borne.

One day, I finally exploded. His despondency unnerved me, and I found it impossible to restrain that sentiment any longer. He did not react. He looked right through me, suffered complaint, abuse and imploring without response. He did scare me, but I gave him hell until he withdrew from the confrontation by putting on his hat and coat, and leaving. I was in no shape to hold him back, but as I stood there in the centre of the living room, fists clenched and breathing hard, it occurred to me that I had to know where he was going.

I rushed over to the window to overlook the street. Yes, there he was alright, trundling down the pavement like some unkempt, forlorn tramp. His movements were slow, all the vigour of his usual bouncy step had deserted him. I did not hesitate. Throwing over my greatcoat, I clattered down the stairs as swiftly as my great belly would allow, clapped my rabbit toque on my head and staggered out into the street.

Traffic had been moving on in the time it had taken me to descend, and I was afraid I had lost sight of him. Eventually I discovered him, however, slouching off among a crowd of merry children and charitable ladies, quite oblivious I should say. My body impeded me, but I closed up to him as far as possible without exciting his attention. It was not difficult, for his presence hardly exceeded the purely physical being-there.

My anxiety that he might take a cab and so elude me proved unsubstantial, for he – and that was, to my knowledge, unprecedented in his career – Sherlock disappeared in the hollow of the underground station, and as I ran after him, elbowing people out of the way, he actually purchased a ticket. I queued behind him, well hidden from sight by two bulging matrons whose interaction involved elaborate gesture of the arms. They were fussy, and delayed the purchase of my own ticket, which resulted in my alarmingly accelerated breath when finally I arrived on the platform.

The train was only just arriving, and my husband the only person beside me to wait for it. It was a gloomy picture, the single man standing in the midst of the deserted platform, gaze vacant, hands unemployed. I recalled how he used to be so active, so alert, his quick eyes dashing here and there, his brain registering facts and sorting them away, and his fingers itching for a measuring tape or a pad to note things down. The comparison was a painful one.

The seat I chose was actually well within Sherlock's vista, but I had by this time decided it did not matter. He would not see, much less realize, that I was close. I observed his face. His eyes were distant, slightly cloudy, and I more than suspected he had taken refuge to his drug addiction once more. The only thing to be discerned distinctly was that faraway, dreamy expression whose occurrence I had noticed several times when we were attending concerts and operas, but not quite so. It used to seem beatific, and now it seemed dismal.

We alighted at Pimlico, and my curiosity as to our destination was satisfied when Holmes approached the riverside, and I, his pursuer in the shadows, stole along a brick wall and peeped around the corner to see him ascending the stairs to a splendid graeco-romanesque building: Tate Gallery.

So, that was where he went. The obvious question at hand was: For what purpose? Was it a secret rendez-vous he had in there, was he, in spite of all appearances, working on a case? Did this in any way relate to Mycroft, and if so, what was he trying to achieve? A dozen of possible explanations coursed my mind, in the way Sherlock had taught me to adopt, but none would lend itself to plausibility. I would have to find out.

The weather conditions had been fresh outside, and I felt the sheltering effect of even this bare and stern harborage as soon as I entered its solemn arcades. The temperature improved on my way into the hall, and simultaneously, the profound silence of devout admiration established itself. The whirr and sough of the wind still in my ear, I experienced it as pleasant, but slightly intimidating.

There was no need to look far. I found him standing in one of the first rooms, his back turned on me, facing a small, rather somber picture in a square frame. His hands were clasped on his back as he stood immovable, chin turned slightly upwards, I observed as I manouvred through the room to get a look at his profile. His eyes squinted a little, but otherwise did not move a muscle, standing so close to the painting there where only some spare inches between the tip of his nose and the texture of the work.

There was nothing to be learned from extended observation. I hesitatingly made the tour of the entire gallery, and, returning after well over an hour, found him standing in the exact spot where I had left him. He did not even budge when the father of an American family tried to get a turn at the picture, apparently desirous to tell his children about it. They moved on, slightly put out.

I tried to settle upon a course of action. Would it not be for the best to return home? There could not be much wrong about Sherlock standing in front of a picture, even if it was for hours. At least, it was impossible for him to hurt himself in this way, and that was something after all.

But no. I could not face leaving without some kind of explanation. I longed to understand – at least a little. Sherlock was my husband, my lover, and certainly he knew what there was to know about me. If I did not quite know him so well by now, there was still time to make amends.

I turned around and, besides the retreating family, spotted a complacently smiling watchman in uniform. His shape erred on the side of corpulence, which gave him a somehow avuncular aspect that immediately inspired confidence with me. I gave him a tentative smile as he looked my way, and indeed, he came to my side with the deliberate sway of the heavyset.

"Something I can do for you, madam?"

"Oh please. This picture – " I pointed across the room to where Holmes was standing with an implicitness that made him look like inventory.

"That." The watchman sighed, and a slight frown marred the benignity of his adipose face. "Of course, madam. I shall trouble the gentleman to step aside if you wish to have a look. He's seen it enough to remember every dot in it, one should think."

"Oh no, that's quite unnecessary", I hurriedly struck in, only then considering what to say. "It's not the painting, you see. It's the gentleman I'm interested in.."

"You're his wife", the watchman deduced with a shrewd bluntness that took me a little aback.

"Er…yes. As a matter of fact, I am."

Our exchange ceased as both of us fixed our lingering gazes on Sherlock, unaware and wholly absorbed in this obscure little work of art.

"You know, madam, that he comes here three times a week?" The man finally offered. "Sometimes more often. It's the same picture he occupies, every time. I have often observed him. He stays for an hour or two, and then, when I have at last made up my mind to address him, he vanishes. Just like that."

"I can imagine", I breathed, still looking at my motionless loved one. Would he really, on the verge of parenthood, develop insanity? Or what else could this inexplicable demeanour signify?

"Is he an artist?" The watchman inquired, and my head flew around. "Is he in any way interested in William Blake?"

"I – what? Excuse me. No, he is not. At least, I don't think so…"

"Well he must have at least a weak spot for the man, though some would call it obsession. I don't believe that painting has ever been being looked at longer by anyone I know of, save the master himself. And I would know."

"Well, I….well. Thank you", I replied confusedly. "You know, I think I'll just – " I reached out my arm to where Holmes stood – where he had stood. The uniformed man and I looked at each other with surprise until a little bubble of laughter gave vent to his feelings, and he shrugged his shoulders with a shrug.

"That's the way. One moment here – then gone again. Excuse me, madam…"

Summoned by some sort of superior, the friendly guard abandoned me, and I stepped up to the deserted space in front of the painting.

It portrayed a tall sinewy man with tangled sandy hair and beard. Standing erect, he would certainly have been an imposing appearance, but, disturbingly, he crouched on the ground, a look of abject fear on what seemed to have once been a proud, masterful face. He was stark naked, and his nails, as well as his head and body hair, had outgrown a becoming length. His surroundings was depicted with darkish colours, suggesting a cave of sorts, slightly tinged with crimson as if a fire were reflecting its glow on the stone wall. I had a brief association to hell and purgatory, and the dread on the face, looking at it for a second time, upset and repelled me.

With a shudder, I swiftly averted my eyes. They met with the polished bronze plaque beside the frame, inscribed with the title of the painting – "Nebuchadnezzar" – and the name and life data of Blake. I closely peered at the words. They did not seem to ring a bell.

Dismayed and uneasy in my mind, I made for home.

**Hi there!**

**Poor Sherlock! **

**Actually, I decided to push him into clinical depression when, a year or two back, I visited tate gallery in London and saw the Blake painting. It seemed familiar and at the end of the day I remembered where I'd seen it before: The Granada series used it to illustrate Holmes' horror trip after the consummation of the poinsonous **_**Devil's Foot**_**, along with children's photographs, recollections of Moriarty and lots and lots of blood. I found it interesting and decided to weave it into the story. Hope that works for you!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	89. Chapter 89

Chapter eighty-nine: His greatest fear

17th February 1887

"_A little better would he live, poor wight/had you not given him that gleam of heavenly light" Goethe's Faust_

I did not mention to Sherlock that I had witnessed his visit to the gallery. He, on his part, gave me reason to think it superfluous. From the corner of my eyes, so to speak, I could perceive a certain hostility, reprobative stares, and I could not but believe I had underestimated his acuity. He must have noticed me, and the ensuing coldness was profound and intentional, rather than caused by his state of indifference.

It was too hard to muster the courage. I could not bring up the topic, I was myself sensible these days due to my increasingly delicate condition, and I shirked from the notion of a quarrel that would possibly involve verbal or physical violence. Therefore, our respective muteness endured.

The weather was not apt to improve one's humour. I spent most of my time at the Cock&Horse, or at the Street Mission with Mary. Being surrounded by children cheered me up and made me more and more ponder the nature of my own little one. He was calm, and peacefully inclined, that much was obvious so far. There was nothing of that evil temper that had given my mother such a hard time during her pregnancies with Jonathan, Annie and me, and of which my father had had such a vast stock of anecdotes. Dr. Watson agreed with me on that point. Here was a child that would make little trouble, that would probably turn out bookish and introvert like its father.

But in his own way, its father was making trouble.

"Leave 'im alone an' 'e'll come 'ome", was what Porkey and the mates would tell me, but it wasn't quite enough, it kept on nagging me when I was away, and even worse when I was in Baker Street, evading Sherlock's accusing stares. I was grateful to the guys for the shelter they gave me through their company, their almost constant availability. I was grateful for the way they had helped coaxing Gruner into indiscretion. I was grateful for many things, but there were things they could not provide, help they could not give. Like salvation. Like peace of mind.

What they could provide, however, was a home of sorts, and I more and more often prolonged my afternoons sitting in the taproom into nights spent in Ernie's spare room. Although both he and his wife were snoring inconsistently next doors, hrrrrrgh phew, hrrrgh phew like they would go at each other during day time, and although I knew Al Whittaker had lain here contemplating my murder, it afforded me better rest than my own bedroom from whence Sherlock's nightly restlessness was audible.

There were days though when a return home seemed inevitable. I liked Ernie's wife well enough, but I was disinclined to share a bath tub with her. Thus, I found myself in Baker Street, washing and changing into a sensible cordurcy frock, and it was on this occasion that I ran into him. It was right between bedroom and bathroom, and I said "Ow!" and he said "Er – " and I said "Um.." and he said "Where have you been."

With dignity, I straightened my bath robe, playing for time so as to know what to say, but he would leave me none. He seized me by the shoulders, a gesture whose aggression was rare with him these days. "You can't run away in this state. Not asking my permission, not even telling me where to find you – "

"Hah!" I could scarce believe it. Was he talking about himself? "Seems ter me, mister, that it's you who don't find it necessary ter tell me yer whereabouts – "

"Oh, as if it needed telling you!" He sneered, and some way between anger and indignation I found I was relieved to see he was able again to raise enough emotion for taking offence. "You know well enough where to find me, and if it happens that for once you don't, you needn't ask, eh? You find out on your own."

"I was frightened!" I exclaimed, tears welling up in my eyes. I may be inclined to them, but to my defense I must add the pregnancy was helping none. "'ave ya seen yerself in th' mirror lately? Why, ya seemed so beside yerself that I was afraid you'd be hit by a cart, or you'd fall into the Thames!"

"How touching!" Sherlock scoffed. "I suppose it must have been all very hard on you, the effort of spying on your demented spouse…"

"I di'n't say you was demented, an' I wan't spying! I jus' thought – "

"Well, don't." His eye was glittering with hurtful intent. "It is often irksome and never a success."

I wished I could slap him, slap him right across his inconsolably-sad-turned-arrogant visage. Perhaps I did not possess his blessed intelligence, but at least when I was unhappy, I tried to work it out, not take it out on someone I pretended to love! No, I could not tell from a glance my counterpart's occupation and disposition and ammunition, I was not able to trace psychopaths and what-nots, and there was no way I would ever discover a law in chemistry. But at least, if I was itching somewhere, I had the wisdom to –

" – speak, man!" I barked, riled to a point where I had no nerve left to express myself in linguistic detail. "What's wrong with you? What 'as 'appened? Why am I always excluded, eh? Why am I always to blame fer ever'thing that goes pearshaped? Why can't you jus – "

"Leave me alone Kitty."

"No, I won't, I will 'ave an answer an' I will – "

"Why can't you just leave me, for Heaven's sake!"

"Sherlock, I – "

"Leave me alone!" He roared, and it sounded like some wounded cat of prey. The house seemed to shake with its sheer volume. I stood rooted to the spot by his wild gaze, destitute. "Can't you see its your blasted self that brought me here, that reduced me to what I am?"

"What did I do to you Sherlock", I whispered, almost inaudibly. "What did I ever do to you."

He tore his hate drenched gaze from me and kicked open the door of my room, walking in as if seeking out some privacy. "Well, took away my pride, for one thing! I used to be a – a proud man, always very proud, didn't I? Walking erect, with my head held high…you made me crawl! You humiliated me before myself!"

I felt defeat, but quickly overcame it thanks to my enervation. Following him into my room, water still tripping down on my toes in tiny currents, I banged the door shut. "Oh I beg ye! Not that litany again!"

Sherlock was standing by the window, his greying temples covered by his thumbs, palms shading his face from the light that was seeping through the daubed pane. I observed how slender he was, boyish one might have said, hadn't it been for his height and comparative breadth of shoulder. The silk of his waistcoat made his back sleek and shiny, like scales or very glossy pelt. The trousers were loosely hanging over his narrow feet. They were naked.

I felt a bit of a draught in the room and shivered, chilled also by his silence. "Sherlock", I said, receiving no answer.

"Sherlock!" I repeated keenly, and he turned around, and it seemed as if he had passed through a hundred years of misery. There was nothing boyish about him in the face, it was sunken, crestfallen. It was desperation.

I knew I was not to touch him. Yet, I felt that I was in charge, somehow, so I indicated my bed, remaining where I was, and he sat down on it, slowly, face again buried in his hands. For a moment, I expected him to break into tears, but the moment passed, and I gave him time to recover before again I addressed him.

"Sherlock, I want to know why you went to that Gallery, and I want you to tell me. Why had it to be a secret? What did you see in that picture? I want ter know, hear me!"

I had to wait for my answer. Finally, in dull sort of way, he professed not to know.

"That's not how I sees it. Wanna know what I fink? I fink ya jus' don't manage ter get o'er the disappointment yer bruvver gave ya. Sibling issues, eh? They can be trying. I would know."

He again took a long time and then said: "It's not that."

"It is, too some extent."

"To some extent, perhaps. But it is also you. It is the way I have become."

"So, what's so very bad about that, may I ask?" I edged closer clandestinely, covering a bit of the distance between me and the shrunken man on my bedside.

"It's this", he replied, his hand vaguely indicating the bed, the room. "It's all of this. What I chose to do, what I did – what I did it for – "

"We'll have a child, Sherlock", I said gently. "There's nothing wrong about that. There's nothing wrong in being happy. It's human."

"And yet, I feel so – "

He fell silent, passed his hand over his mouth as if to wipe off some disgusting taste. I waited. "It's all of this", he repeated, and looked at me imploringly as if I had to know what he meant.

"Love", I hazarded carefully. "A life shared, spent together. A life not only devoted to knowledge."

"My father – " His voice died away when I shot a greedy look at him.

"What?" I urged him softly, despite my disappointment. "Your father would not have approved of this?"

"No." Sherlock shook his head, limply. "He did not much approve of anything. Not of women, at any rate. He approved of Mycroft, who always excelled following his example, who kept company with the right people, who did not much care about art and savoir vivre. I, on the other hand – "

"You were closer to women", I reckoned. I instinctively that an error in my guesswork would be fatal, but Sherlock nodded. "To your mother, your grandmother."

"I – I was so young when she died…" Emotions were struggling on his speed-aged face, emotions that had been kept under lock and seal for what must have been almost thirty years.

" 'course you were. But you had grand-mere."

He was sobbing now, truly and really. Sherlock Holmes was sitting on my bed, sobbing, his hands clutching at a bit of counterpane. I was simultaneously appalled and deeply touched. "Yes – I had grand-mere – and when she took me away from Lancashire, from the great cold house with its strong and knowledgeable men – I felt I ought to regret it – but I did not, I did not, and I was happy when we went to Paris – away at last!"

"That sounds very understandable. You loved your grandmother. You loved Paris. You had never belonged to Mycroft and your father."

But here, I had indeed committed a mistake. Sherlock hissed like a rattle snake, moving away from me on the bed. "What can you know about it? You foolish, mundane person with no education at all, you common girl from the gutter…"

I managed not to be hurt by the insults, supposing I had had it coming. "That's not you talking Sherlock. That's Nathaniel. That's Mycroft."

He breathed heavily, and regained composure. "So you know what he was taking you for?"

I raised an eyebrow. "A birth machine?"

My man laughed involuntarily. "Maybe. He knew why I had selected you. That you had no power or money and were therefore perfectly suited to the role of the pliable incubator."

"Ah, he did not know me quite so well then if he thought of me as pliable."

"You have spirit, I know that. But Mycroft reminded me also of what else you were: A penniless person with no family worth mention, a woman of dubious sexual morals, a self-disrespecting whore from the shadows…"

My eyebrow climbed even higher. "I am afraid it doesn't concern what Mycroft thinks about my morale and respectability. If I'm not mistaken, he's banged up currently."

Sherlock seemed dumbfounded at my words and obviously wished to protest, but I would not let him. The stream of his talk was threatening to break off, and I had to prevent that. "What happened later, after you had graduated from high school? Why didn't you remain in Paris? You were so happy there. You might have remained with the Vernets."

"I had a letter from my father. It said if I had any Englishness and sense of family left I was to pack my things and come back home, which I did, but only for a short time. Father urged me to go to Cambridge like Mycroft, and again, I complied. What else could I do. It afforded me a possibility to stay away from home. The vacations I would spend with Trevor, one of my peers."

"But Cambridge wasn't the answer, either?" I dug deeper, recalling Sherlock's letter to Marie-Claude in which he had complained against the "inhospitable town".

He shook his head. "No. I felt myself trying to shake off some of the attitudes I had adopted at home – but it was no use, I was missing the sound influence grand-mere had had over me. I had an – experience – "

"Yes?"

"There was this flower girl", Sherlock said, not looking at me. "This flower girl on King's Parade."

I caught myself holding my breath. "What about her?"

"We would pass her several times a day, the other men and I. Sometimes only Travor and I. _Flowers? Flowers, gentlemen?_ She would say with her soft voice, and I could see her small hands arrange violets and snowdrops and crocus into small nosegays. It was not that she was anything remarkable. She was no exquisite beauty like you. She was young, my age, but clearly not my social class. I could see her from the window of my room at college. I watched her, often. I was in a struggle with myself. One day, I made up my mind to address her. We went to a hotel and – "

"Yes, quite."

Sherlock tore his hair in exasperation. "It was hell. I punished myself for weeks afterwards. I denied myself – it is unnecessary to go into the detail of my excruciation."

"First time, worst time", I weakly tried to lighten matters up, but to no avail. He unhappily shook his head.

"It was always like this. Perhaps a little less in time. Not that it happened often…."

"No." I watched him, lips slightly apart.

"…but I could never really get comfortable. It was – within financial transaction conditions mostly. You are a woman of the world, Kitty. You can imagine. I need not explain it to you, do I?"

"Of course not."

"It was with you, for the first time, that I started to feel less uncomfortable. Of course, I had never…relationships never were an issue before. I could get used to you. I felt less unhappy about it, saw it less and less as a necessity. But it still made me feel dirty. Made me despise myself, especially after you got…"

I stretched out my hand. It hovered over his, shivering a little, and finally dared to settle on his sleeve. "It's awright", I whispered, hoarsely. "You're my husband. What could be wrong. We love each other, don't we? How could it be dirty."

"It just – is."

"No, re'lly."

"When I saw you in that church down there", he breathed a strained breath. "I mean to say…you, half-naked, with your swollen womb…and I had to listen to the…perverse, violent thoughts of this man…this man who knew your body, intimately…I found my thoughts were not so much alien to his…my wishes were…I mean…when you first came in here…Kitty…with your flame coloured fur…with your womanhood…the monthly blood, filthy blood…with your impure, beautiful nakedness….I wanted to…but I couldn't…"

"It's awright", I repeated steadily. "It's nature."

"It can't be!" He threw his hands over his eyes. "It can't be in my nature! I am – what I am – homo sapiens – God's image - man walking upright, on two legs – but I want to get on my– and then there is – There's always the crack in the lense – oh horrible, horrible!"

Shivers and convulsion seized his body. I wanted to gasp as pictures flashed my mind: Desperation on a man's hair face…nails grown into claws…fire reflected on the walls of a cave… but I knew I had to be there for him, I had to be the strong one.

"Sherlock." I held out my hands to grasp this. "My darling. My love."

"I can't Kitty." He inhaled, lungs straining against his ribcage. "I'm afraid."

"Of…" I frowned, trying to make eye contact. "Of loving…?Of living…?"

"Yes. Of living," he took a deep breath, "like an…"

There was a homely little sound at the far end of the counterpane, like a soft Prrrrr. Ginger Jack's furry little head peeped out from beneath it, we had disturbed his afternoon nap. His slanted eyes narrowed at Sherlock, whose face had assumed a terrified expression.

I smoothed the counterpane back over Jack and took Sherlock by the hands. We looked into each other's eyes, watery grey into anthrazite, and for the first time in weeks, he put his lips against mine and they mingled, delectably.

**Heyho!**

**So, that much for the picture, I hope it has been explained to satisfaction. Nebuchadnezzar the king became too proud and mighty so God forced him to live like the nether forms of life, crawling. I think the parallel is apt.**

**But emotionally, I am all on Sherlock's side. I've been through clinical depression several times in my life, so I know what I'm talking about. He's a poor devil, but it seems he'll improve. Hope you're happy with the chapter!**

**Love, Mrs.F**


	90. Chapter 90

Chapter ninety: Destination unknown

1st of March 1887

„_Nor past nor future now our soul employ/ The present only constitutes our joy." Goethe's Faust_

For a start, it seemed that his problems had been settled.

I mean not to say that all was perfect, but the cloud hanging above us had cleared away, and Sherlock could breathe by day and sleep by night as a free man. He had his bad moments, too, but they were prone to dissipate soon, and altogether I was under the impression that we were making some way.

It was about two weeks after the day of his lifetime confession. Weather had made a great leap towards summer, and the birds were twittering as I came walking up Bakerstreet from my hundreth medical appointment with Watson. On my arm, I was carrying a basket with little treasures I had got hold of at the Portobello Road jumble sale: A spinning top, a musical box with an organza-clad ballet dancer turning to the sounds, a picture book about the gardening activities of a hedgehog family. Of course, none of this would find my husband's approval. His idea of toys probably would have amounted to a revolver, handcuffs and a chemistry set.

To my irritation, I found a cab parking on the walkway in front of 221b, at such an angle as made it almost impossible for me to enter the house, let alone for pedestrian to walk by. Those who had to were already muttering and shaking their heads, aiming dirty glares at the driver who, cool as a cucumber, sat counting his cash in the sunshine. I stepped up to him.

„I say, cabby! This is a bit o' a liberty, don't ye fink?"

He was hardly troubled to look up. „What is, ma'am?"

I stepped closer, forming a funnel in front of my mouth with my hands to enhance the urgency. „The pavement, Joe Soap! It ain't big enough ter old both your cab an' them walkers! Can't ye count yer bees soemwhere lese instead? And ow d'ye imagine I'll get into th'ouse wiv this ere pellet in front o' me, eh? An' me shopping?"

He shrugged his bent shoulders. „That's not my problem, ma'am."

Needless to say, his lack of cooperativeness got up my dander. I could almost feel my hair bristling around my head like the flame-coloured, unrestrained halo of my child days.

„Now, you listen to me, cabbage!" My teeth were clenched, my arms set akimbo, though with my giantic belly, I would have made a pretty imposing figure either way. I had a brief impression I looked every bit like Annie when enraged, looming like a battleship with flying spittle for it's ocean spray. „Are ya bacons or are ya mutton, or is it jus' that you're too dumb ter move yer bottle someplace you don't get in ever'body's way? Go, hook it, or I'll get the coppers ter do it for ye!"

My antagonist proved unimpressed. „Lady, your coppers can kiss me where the sun don't shine."

Incredible. The fellow had the cheek to oppose me! I shivered with the secret, genetically transmitted joy of a good, solid dustup. But, truth be told, the man was superior, if in a purely physical sense, and no policeman could be glimpsed at, far and wide. I raised my index as a warning.

„You wait, I'll be back."

Which was, from hindsight, rather a foolish thing to say, since my declared aim had been his removal.

I hurried up the stairs, or tottered rather, which in my condition came closest to it. „Holmes! Holmes, come here, quick!"

He appeared on the landing. „Ah, Kitty. Here at last. That shopping must have taken you hours."

I was too wound up to realize his attire consisted oft thick breaches, sturdy boots and a cloth cap, much less enquire after the reason. „Holmes, there is one impudent fellow in the street. His hansom cab's obstructin' the pavement in the very front o' our door. He talked back at me most rudely."

I pointed down into his general direction, breathing heavily and looking to all intents and purposes like a raging madwoman, for Holmes retreated into his room to fetch a shawl and placed it over my shoulders. Piqued, I shook it off.

„Please stop this, Holmes. I need yer to go an' tell the redneck where ter get off, not nurse me into sweeter temper. Fellow's jammin' the whole street, no one's can get past properly. Ye wants me ter squeeze this belly past him on me way in an' owt fer what, the rest o th'day?"

„By no means, Kitty. I ordered the man here myself."

„You?!" I was mostly amazed at the fact I had not been able to tell for myself. Respect for the comfort of his fellow creatures was not one of Sherlock's stronger points.

„Certainly. Put on some more reasonable shoes, and we'll be off."

„Aha?" I watched him sceptically. „So, ist he game afoot, or what?"

He gave me a brief smile. „Not strictly speaking. It's more of a surprise. I hinted at that at Christmas, in your sister's greenhouse, remember?"

I pretended having a more serviceable memory than actually was the case. „course I do. Are we headed for the country? Is that why ye're wearin' these things?"

He shrugged a mysterious shoulder. „Maybe." Without further explication, he made for the front door.

„Awright." I sighed deeply. „A surprise, then. I'm all on tenter'ooks."

oooOOOooo

It was impossible to persuade him into indiscretion. His profession brought it about that even Sherlock's more profane secrets were hugged so tightly to himself as to make him appear a human safe with no password to go with it. So I contented myself with light chatter during our drive – which proved a rather prolonged journey.

At mid-day we stopped at an inn for luncheon. By way of an inquiry unobserved by Sherlock, I learned that we found ourselves in a small hamlet in the High Weald, but that was as exact as I could make it. The drive continued for at least another two hours, and I started getting peeved and wondering whether he intended shipping me over to the Continent, and whether I should not protest against it while there was still time.

But just when I had made up my mind to blurt out my boredom and discomfort, Sherlock glimpsed out of the window. „We ought to be there in the quarter of an hour."

„Where, Sherlock?" I could stand it no more. „What's meaning of all of this? Is this about a case, yes or no? Are we in danger? Do we ave ter hide away? You can tell me you know, I'm no chickenheart."

He laughed out loud, his head tossed back and eye gleaming amused. „I know you aren't. Did I not tell you this was meant as a surprise to you? A surprise you had to wait for quite a while, but it'll be worth it. You'll see my word is good."

„Very well." I acquiesced. „But can't you give me a hint?"

„You told me you wanted your child to grow up in the countryside, didn't you?"

„Yeah – but…" My eyes went wide. „Oh, Sherlock!"

His laughter filled our cabin. He was enjoying it all very much. I leapt to his side and for a long, long time, there were only hugs and kisses and fond caresses. We were not finished even when the vehicle came to a standstill, and parted only when the driver knocked at our window, unwillingly.

„Eh, guv'nor! We've reached our destination, thought you'd like to know."

„Well hold yer bloody box!"

I hurled abuse at him, unforgetting of his earlier discourtesy, but he only grinned. Holmes did his best to calm me down.

„There now, Catherine. Do you want to see the place where we are going to live, or not?"

This prospect did have some power, and I relaxed sufficiently to take in the country beyond our windows. We had left behind the primeval weald some time ago, and were now surrounded by a spacious, though barren landscape. Wind moved the long grass, the slopes and despressions sprinkled with white chalky rocks, and in the distance, the sea could be heard rolling and pounding. With a little stretch oft he imagination, I could think myself in Ireland – at home.

Beaming all over my face, I turned at my husband. „I love it!"

„Wait till you've seen the house", he told me, and stepped outside. On his gallant hand I emerged, big and bulky, but feeling as light as a feather. We had a house, a house by the sea. We would raise our children here.

„Over there", he told me, as I stood taking in the vista of green rolling downs and slate-grey sea.

There were more landmarks in this direction, lots of enclosures, hedges and stiled fencing, and the roof of a cottage could be perceived in a wind-sheltered hollow. I inhaled in anticipation, and grasped his hand. „Imagine!" Was all I could say. „Jus' imagine!"

He smiled, I think he knew what I felt. I, Kitty Winter, whore-in-the-gutter, ex-jailbird and pennyless concubine, I was going to have a family here on the Sussex Downs! It seemed too good to be true.

But the best was yet to come. On his hand, I allowed myself to the led around the curb, following a stone wall that delineated the path into the gentle hollow. The garden door gave a homely creak as he opened it. I listened to the steps of our boots on the rough stone slabs in the ground.

The first thing that struck me as odd was the presence of flowerpots – lots of them, actually, in front of the house and in the window frames. Then he conducted me over the threshold, and a comforting warmth greeted us whom we were cold from the severe spring-time chill. A sturdy set of stairs was winding upstairs, and beneath, a friendly fire blazing in the fireplace.

„Who lit the fire?" I wondered aloud, but he only smiled.

I was shown into a kitchen with low, beflowered windows that was remarable for it's orderliness. I even suspected a scent of freshly baked muffins in the room.

„Who did all of this? You haven't been away in ages."

Sherlock responded by showing me the cosy study which was to be his realm, outfitted with every necessity to his work. It's windows faced a pasture where peaceful cows grazed, and to my surprise, two large beehives had been set up in the rear garden. Again, I sensed a female presence in this room, in the way some books had been cleared away from the walls to make room for some bright pictures, and all the backrests were neatly covered with antimacassars.

Upstairs, he threw open to the nursery. Pale yellow wallpaper, painted with poppy and cornflower greeted my eye, and the brand-new cradle in the centre was stuffed with primrose silk, conveniently neutral as regards gender. A rocking horse gently swayed in the breeze from the window.

I stood agape, then confronted my husband. „Sherlock, will you finally tell me who prepared all this, who furnished the house for us? You did not order all these things, there's no way you would have thought of it. There is a definite woman's hand in all of this."

To my amazement, he only chuckled. „You can come out now."

„What - !" I swivelled around, my eyes darting here and there, but all I could see was that the rocking horse was shaken a little harder when the curtain by the window stirred into motion.

„Thank ya, Mr. Holmes", a soft, childish voice said in reply. „I _was_ gettin' a li'le uncomfortable over here."

My heart almost ceased beating when a graceful young figure emerged from the folds, red shock of hair a bit ruffled. She approached with a shy smile.

„Hello, aunt Cathy. I hopes ye're not mad wiv us, or somefink."

_Whaheyy!_

_Kitty's going to have a 360 degree's new life. Or do the signs indicate stormy weather? Either way, I sincerely hope you'll enjoy._

_Love, Mrs.F_


	91. Chapter 91

Chapter ninety-one: Insomnia

1st of March 1888

"_Of suns and worlds I've naught to say worth mention/How men torment them claims my whole attention."_

The sudden appearance of my little niece took me too much by surprise for words. I stammered incoherently, locking Fanny in my arms and stroking her long _feuilles mortes_ hair.

"Is awright, aunt Cathy", the child tried to soothe me. "We dinna want ter startle ya, did we, Mister'olmes? I wuz just – "

"I phoned your brother, Jonathan", Holmes explained, hands folded on his back, eyes smiling mischievously. "To ask him to look into a little thing for me in Ireland. He mentioned Fanny being miserable since your departure, so I suggested…"

"It wan't that only", Fanny confessed, giving me a wide-eyed look that seemed to implore me not to send her away again. "I jus' hain't been getting' on wiv muvver. She's giving me hell a'most ever time I see 'er, an' I'm not taiking it any more. If you maike me go back to that plaice, I swear I'm gonna scarper off."

Even I felt my big smile cede to give way to a critical frown. "Fanny, you coulda written me if you was unhappy at 'ome. I coulda talked t'yer muv – "

"Ain't no use in talking to muvver." She vigorously shook her locks, stretched out a determined little chin. "You speak wiv 'er reasonably loike, an' she'll turn a deaf ear on all you say, an' go on screamin' loud as a banshee. I thought ya'd know that."

Naturally I did. Annie was not one to argue with politely, sensible requests or refusals would usually be answered with protest and abuse. However, I did not feel entitled to undermine her authority over her own children.

"Fanny, this was very wrong. You should have given the three of us a chance to work this out properly. We coulda 'ave found a solution to please ever'body. Now next time yer muv sets eyes on you or me, she's gonna be angry, and rightly so. "

The girl hung her head a little, her narrow shoulders bowed. I exchanged a quick glance with Holmes, who had cocked a questioning eyebrow at me.

"But naturally", I terminated the short silence, "naturally I'm very glad ter 'ave ya here, me lass. An' if Mr.'olmes agrees, I shall be happy fer you ter stay as long as you wish."

"Of _course_ I agree, Kitty", my husband declared emphatically, throwing his arms apart like a stage performer. He had those theatrical little moments from time to time. "Would I have arranged for her to cross the Irish Sea if I did not wish her to remain? Fanny will be most welcome, a companion for you when I have to go up to London, and a considerable help with the babe…."

The girl had listened with shining eyes, breath subdued. Now she flew at his neck, in that impulsive manner of hers. "Oh thank ya, thank ya, Mr.'olmes!"

To my surprise, Holmes did not shove the child away as he would have done only months previously. I could tell he was not entirely comfortable with the embrace, but he did not withdraw and even patted Fanny's head, glowing like a haystack on fire, very awkwardly.

oooOOOooo

My life was changed, it was changed through 180 degrees. I missed my friends, naturally, and Mrs. Hudson. But the Watson's visited frequently, now that I approached motherhood. He would minister to my medical needs upstairs, while Mary spent time with my niece. She loved the little girl, with all the love a woman can give who has been barred from the delight of delivering a child of her own. Together they would bake, and sow, and think up improvements for our little house and the attached garden, while I was vegetating, increasingly useless with my colossal body.

Pregnancy had been kind to me, up to now, but by the time we were settled down snugly, I developed all kinds of symptoms: Swollen feet and a painful tension of my breasts were bearable. The worst part was the insomnia.

I was restless, so awfully restless. Turning in my sheets would not help, and I sat up at times, occasionally into the early hours of morn. Sherlock, who, due to his horror of all things related to the body, mostly kept himself distant, was kind to me on these nights. His own rhythm was flexible, and a couple of hours sleep less did not do the same to him as to me. We fell into a kind of nocturnal existence: I would write my diary while he worked on case files by the light of the lamp. We did not talk much, and I was glad he did not complain of the wakeful night or my inability to give him pleasure.

The grandfather clock ticked away the hours towards dawn, when once, on such an occasion, Sherlock showed signs of impatience. He flung his pen across the tabletop so that it impacted with the wall, falling back into his seat and pressing a bony hand against his temple. I had been sewing buttons on one of his overcoats, and the needle gave me a painful sting when I jerked in dismay.

"What the bloody – "

"I agree with you. It is frustrating," Sherlock uttered, rising from his chair with a flick of the coattails, and moving across to where his cigarettes lay, his most frequented resort since cocaine had become less available in the countryside. "Is this little devil never going to come, or was he nothing but a will-o'-the-wisp to begin with? Sometimes I wonder."

"It would be hard on me if you should presume I had developed this amount of bodily fat all on me own", I retorted with a faint smile, but he did not listen, just stood in front of the window and smoked in uneasy, excitable silence. I sighed, and got up to join him by the window.

"You long fer it too much", I explained, smoothing my arms around his narrow waist and resting my head on his shoulder blade. "It cannot be long now. Dr. Watson said so."

He edgily stepped out of my hug. "I can't breathe in here!"

"Then le's open the winder."

"No, no, that won't do the trick." He disappeared for a second, then returned with my coat and knitted cap. "Here, put that on." I clumsily caught them as he shoved the things at me, blundering with lack of sleep.

Sherlock waited impatiently while I got dressed. On himself, he just threw the greatcoat I had been mending, fidgety with a sudden need for fresh air. "We're going for a walk."

oooOOOooo

It was still dark when we stepped outside, but the sky had that peculiar, blackish purple shade that precedes dawn. There was just enough light to discern the bulky forms of the two bee hives in our rear garden.

"I wonder what those are doing here?" I wondered aloud, with the vague intention of turning his mind to other things than the imminent delivery of our child.

Sherlock's shaky fingers once again fussed with his cigarette case. "They were left here by the previous tenant. Whatever he kept them for is anybody's guess."

I tried again. "Venus! Look over there!"

The bright silvery splotch in the wide dark sky was easily seen even by the most untrained of observers, but Holmes only huffed. "Venus, what Venus? I can see no Venus here."

"The morning star, Sherlock!" I looked up at him in amazement. "Honestly, I would have expected a man of yer education ter know it!"

"I leave the stars to those who want them. Watson used to reproach me with the same thing, but as long as no luminary has been proven relevant to the solution of any murder or treachery, I absolutely refuse to see what they can have to do with me. Now about this – morning star? – I will try to forget it."

He stepped out mightily on the chalky path that was leading up to the causeway, and I had to bestir my unwieldy shape so as not to drop behind. The sky was lightening with every minute now, and by the time we had climbed the cliff track, it was all rosy, and the sea glittering with the first sun beams.

Sherlock had reached the cliff top first, he stood facing the far horizon when I came, huffing and puffing, uphill to join him. His spare figure was a dark, pensive outline against the Turneresque spectacle of light opened up to us. I knew better than taking his hand or saying something that might be interpreted as romantic, I just hung back a little and watched the gulls that circled above the spiky rocks protruding from the coastal line to our left hand.

No doubt they were nesting thereabouts. I could see the birds flying there with small objects in their beaks, probably fish and mussle shells. I remembered how Jonathan and I had been fervent nest robbers in our childhood days, audaciously climbing into the steep wall above the beach to reach the brood place and steal the eggs from the clutch. We did so in the early hours when nobody could see and report us, and my mother would cook them later, and serve the delicacy at breakfast time.

I felt a sudden desire to crawl down into the rock to reach the nest. Not in order to plunder it, this time I just wished to see the fledglings, provided for so devotedly by the old birds. It could not be very difficult really, a small ledge was plainly to be seen which led into the bulwark of sharp rock.

The descent downhill was a relief compared with climbing it, and I suddenly felt lighter of foot as I swiftly ran along the sandy path that ran parallel to the edge of the cliff. Small flowers were already in blossom, horseshoe, buttercup and daisies spotted my trail with small yellow and white dots.

The ledge of rock started a little bit below the pathway, very narrow at first, but widening a little as it approached the hatchery so cunningly hidden among small pinnacles of stone. I had to sit on my behind in order to slip down the grassy slope slowly and with great care. My feet had to catch hold on the ledge; otherwise I knew I would go over the edge. But no, not I. Not Kitty, child of _Eíre_.

I stood on the small projection, securely balanced. Not looking below, that was the trick. If I saw the waves brandishing against the cliff far underneath my tiny foothold, I would momentarily develop vertigo, my experience told me that much. But this was easily done, it was like bearing a tray. The thing to do was to look ahead, always ahead, and I would never loose balance.

Bit by bit, I came nearer. Once my foot slipped on a damp bed of lichen, and I closed my eyes as I heard small stones rattling down the steep wall a short way, before the sound was drowned in the roaring of the sea. I inhaled deeply and reached out for one of the pointy stalagmite-like formations, a safe hold for my trembling hand. One more step conferred me to the place where the nest was planted into the rock, and security.

I had settled to tranquil contemplation of the young birds, naked and ugly, when the wind carried a voice down here to my ear. I lifted my head. It was Sherlock calling, shouting. He sounded agonized. The realization dawned on me that he was looking for me, that I had given him a bad fright. Crying out would avail me nothing, he would not hear me from beneath the causeway, and what was more, he would think me in danger, and possibly come to imperil himself. That would never do.

I slowly rose and manoeuvred myself through the rock cones, where the ledge continued, leading up again to the level of the path. It was broader and easier on this side, and soon I came walking up through the coastal long grass, smiling insecurely at my husband, who had turned as white as a bed sheet. His jaws were clenched together as in a fit.

"Could you – ever – ", he said between his teeth, grabbing my arm and hurrying me along the trail that would ring us back to our house. I dared not speak, but his grip on my arm hurt, and I whimpered involuntarily.

"Frightening me like this – I thought I – what were you thinking – must be out of your mind", he spluttered confusedly. "I had never – never – should lock you in your room – "

"Sherlock", I softly attempted, but my husband spun round and struck me across the face.

I was shocked, but not unpleasantly so. My eyes might swim with tears and skin tingle with the impact, but if he cared enough to do this, he was truly shaken by the thought that I might have fallen. To me, this knowledge was more precious than my very limbs.

"I didn't mean to – "

"How could you do this to me? Clowning about above an abyss of 300 feet or more – "

"I knew what I was doing! It was not – "

" – no idea what kind of devil has ridden you, do you want to get yourself killed?"

"I grew up by the coast, I know how to – "

" – no responsibility at all! Are you at all aware you're bearing my child?"

I experienced a sinking feeling, deep down inside my stomach. We looked at each other for the fraction of a second before I averted my gaze.

"Yes, certainly. I had not thought. You are right, the child."

He whirled around and stormed away before I could say another thing. But I did not pursue him. All of a sudden, I felt very tired. _Rare_, I thought, _I haven't slept all night_.

At a very slow pace, I dragged myself along the garden path and up the stairs into our bedroom. The linen had not been touched, neither of us had lain down to rest, we had known in advance there would be none in store for us.

I laid down heavily on the bed, closing my eyes. Daylight was coming in through the window full blast. But it did not matter to me now.

**So, that is it for now! Maybe you have a notion about how the story is going to unfold. Hope there are still a couple of interested readers out there! I for one enjoyed the chapter and hope it was the same for you. **

**In a bit!**

**Love, mrs.f**


	92. Chapter 92

Chapter ninty-two: Catherine's baby

"_First came your passion like a furious torrent/ of brooklets swollen high from melted snow/ into her heart you poured the torrent/ and now again, you're brooklet's running low." Goethe's Faust_

22nd March 1888

I woke sometime in the afternoon, still tired and sluggish. My breasts were swollen and stinging, but lying on my stomach had become a thing impossible to me, anyway. However, lying on the back was becoming equally uncomfortable, aching as it was with carrying around the additional weight. But the heaviest part of me was my mind.

From some remote corner of my brain, a picture had resurfaced, that of a scribbled plan I had found amongst Sherlock's personal things. Sheridan Holmes – No Limits. It seemed ages ago.

With some little effort, I heaved myself into a sitting position and hung my legs out of bed. There was a breakfast tray next to me that must have sat there for hours: The tea had gone cold inside its pot, and the little bunch of early daffodil was limp, the blossoms drooping. I got up with care, but still my swollen ankles hurt me, and I shivered lightly in the cold breeze from the window, which was ajar. My arms crossed before the breast, hands cupping my elbows.

I had never approached the subject with my husband, nor even admitted I had glimpsed at the education he had drafted for our son. Our son! There was the first crux of the matter. What if our baby turned out to be a girl? What then? I did not think Holmes had even considered this possibility. And if it were to be a son, could I really leave him to this highly ambitious project in good conscience?

My own childhood had not been all perfection, with our poverty and father drinking and Annie, always mean and jealous of me, but it had been nothing like Holmes' early years in the keeping of an over-demanding father and a mother too weak to push her own ideas about the rearing of a child. Knowing Sherlock, I could about imagine the menacing presence of Nathaniel, towering over his family, half-frightened, half-awestruck by the intellectual giant who would not even shrink from physical violence. After the past night, I knew at the latest that Sherlock, too, was capable of that, even if it was not so much in his nature.

I would be there, maybe I could buffer whatever Holmes might be asking of his child. Maybe I could, flattering and cozening my man, establish enough influence to enforce what I thought was best for Sheridan, even when my major importance to Sherlock would have ceased to exist. For all the love we shared, after his words in the early morning, I was not too sure he would let himself be influenced overmuch by me, once I had done my duty by him.

Anyhow, there was nothing I could do now.

oooOOOooo

I carried the spurned breakfast downstairs, replaced the cold tea in the pot with fresh Lady Grey and scraped the crumpled dry toast into the kitchen waste. There was no desire for substantial food at all, only that ominous craving for a brand of tea I had heretofore detested.

Shivering by the table side, I drank the brewage in large, careful gulps. An idea began to form in my cloudy, restive mind, an idea that might, at least for the time being, help me keep my distance. There could be no objection to it. I currently was of no use to my husband, and Fanny was perfectly able to keep our household stand-alone.

When I had resolved, I got up, leaving a half-empty cup behind on the table. There was the sound of a typewriter somewhere in the house, and I followed it to Sherlock's study. A curt knock foreboding my presence, I intruded on him.

As expected, he was seated behind his desk, fingers tapping away fervently. He did not even raise his head on my entering, so I waited by the door frame, peering out of the window where Fanny was running around in the garden. She had tucked up her skirts behind her waistband, and fussed with the beehives, apparently excited about something. I watched her with only half my attention, the other half focused on the man I could glimpse from the corner of my mind. Finally, he was done and turned around to face me.

"Well, Kitty?"

He smiled superciliously, but beneath the surface, I felt consternation and nagging insecurity. No doubt his brutish reaction earlier in the day had shocked him no less than me, and he was uncertain how to handle this. I had no intention to make this harder for him. I just wished myself a thousand miles away.

"Sorry to disturb ya." I felt myself giving him a tired smile. "I only meant ter tell ya I might be goin' up to the Ci'y."

"Very good idea", he replied, obviously relieved. "I hope you'll have a pleasant trip." He was on the verge of returning to his predicament, when I understood he had mistaken my meaning.

"I'm not about ter go shopping. What I'm saying is, I'm gonna stay in Baker Street until my time comes. Dr. Watson has been lookin' after me all these months, and I feel I might prefer him to other practitioners for the delivery. At least I know him, I can trust him…"

Sherlock's hands went slack on the keyboard. "This is absurd!" His face twisted in an outcry of protest, which lent his appearance the curious youngish-oldish look that was an important part of his personal appeal. "Watson and I arranged this a long time ago. He and Mary will come down to stay, so we need not rely on the skills of a local medical man and nurse. The country is a much better, much more suitable place for your lying-in…"

_Lovely! I wish I'd known!_ I inwardly snapped at him. But I contained myself, saying quietly:" I expect Mrs. Hudson will nurse me to my full satisfaction. As for the town, I think I shall prefer it under the given circumstances."

I saw his brain work beneath the high forehead. This was wholly unexpected. He drew breath, looking up from his sitting position, trying to dominate in spite of the usual advantage of height he lacked. "You are serious about this, Kitty?"

"Quite." My jawline set, I gazed down at him with a withering stare.

He sighed, laughed a little and waved his hand in the direction of the window. "You cannot leave me alone here with the girl."

"Why not?" I flared. "I wager she can do everything pretty much as well as I would, were I still capable!"

"Exactly." He rested his head on his hand, propped on an elbow, hiding his embarrassment. "The point is, she is too much like you. People would talk."

"Talk?" I stared at him in disbelief. "What'cha mean, talk? Sherlock, Fanny is a child! It would be preposterous to think – "

"She is fourteen years old!" he reciprocated with an acerbity that surprised and hurt me. "Maybe it is time for you to come to terms with the idea that your niece is not such a child anymore! Look at her, she wears her hair up now and – "

He coloured lightly, and averted his gaze from the subject of our discussion. Fanny was indeed wearing her hair knotted in a chignon. Of course I knew it, but now that I came to think of it, I was unable to tell when this had started. I observed that her calves, naked below the gathered skirts, had rounded almost imperceptibly, and not only those…

Taken aback by my discovery, I returned Sherlock's pertinacious look. "Awright. If you think it better, I shall stay. Although I should hope the country folks have a cleaner mind than others I might be tempted to mention."

And with a glance of contempt, I swept out of the room.

oooOOOooo

My own thoughts were not half as balanced as I had tried to pretend. Fanny! I had never before seen her in this light. Of course she was very young, but was I not young as well? Was not Sherlock fifteen years my senior? Surely, nobody would believe…nobody would dare to insinuate….

I was disgusted with myself, but I could not help stepping in front of the mirror. Only now I realized how much my face had hollowed and sunken with the strain of the pregnancy. My arms and legs looked haggard and fleshless, perfectly bizarre when compared with my belly, ever growing larger and larger. Was it possible I had become ugly, carrying a monster, loveless, with scary intellectual capacities?

I shrank from the mirror, but my hands acted as if of their own will, opening buttons and stripping garments until I was naked before the looking glass. My reflection gave reason for pity. Where a young girl's breasts might just begin to bud tenderly, I was dark and scorched, my belly, heretofore free of blemishes, was now covered with crimson stretch marks. My hand brushed them tentatively while my gaze wandered down to my feet, tumid and twice their usual size.

Monster, indeed.

oooOOOooo

I took a walk in the late afternoon, the same walk we, Sherlock and I, had taken in the morning, though I did not repeat my foolhardy feat of the rock ledge. Instead, I contented myself with sitting in the meadow above the gull's nest, watching the old birds come and go, come and go again.

Why could it not always be this easy? Somehow, I felt everything slipping from my hands. I had married; it had been my only choice. It did not take a gull long to find a mate, it needed neither beauty, nor wealth, nor a virtuous reputation. It needed to be nothing but itself. I had taken the only mate that had wanted me. And now, pregnant and deep in love with him, there was no going back. And I knew, no matter what he felt or did not feel, that I would always love him. But it would never be as with those gulls, so natural, a joint pursuit of feeding the young, perpetually, until the young ones were grown and could hazard their first flight above these perilous cliffs.

The thought struck me that I would like to see that. Yes, yes, I would return. I would come, no matter what my condition, to see the fledglings fly. I would not miss that moment.

Resolved and edified by the prospect, I rose from the damp grass to make my way back home. All the better, if I remained here. No doubt John and Mary would come, and I would be back on my legs in no time. The fear of the babe in my womb had dissolved into nothingness. I was the mother. I would be able to approach it, to mold and form it as well as its father. I would teach it to fly. It would be mine, as well as his.

I heard wild shrieks as I approached the house, and as I saw Fanny madly dancing around in the garden, I immediately suspected a fire. Hurrying as well I could, though the sweat floated freely down my face, I covered the distance, throwing open the garden gate.

"What's a matter?"

The maid flew at my bosom, hugged me tight. "Aunt Cathy, Aunt Cathy! You're never gonna guess what I did! I did it, Aunt Cathy! You want to know what?"

She let go off me, and with a fierce sting through my heart I saw her face, happy and flushed, her elegant chignon coming apart soil smeared all over her palms and pretty pinafore.

"What my lass, what then?"

She took me by her earthy hand and dragged me on through the garden, so that I could hardly keep pace. But I was glad she could not see my eyes, which swam with tears. Fanny was a tender maiden; she knew nothing of men yet. Her innocence was such that only the most despicable of country rubes could conceive a foul suspicion like the one Holmes had hinted at.

I looked at the backside of her young, white neck, the easy flexibility of her growing body. I thought about the possibilities she would have, the education we would give her, the people she would be introduced to.

No, I did not bear a monster, nor was I one myself. There was but one monster here, and it was green-eyed.

Hiya!

You like? Send me your guess as to Kitty's baby's gender! ;-) It's soon to come!

Love, Mrs.f


	93. Chapter 93

Chapter ninety-three: Plenty of bees

22nd of March 1888

"_..that you emancipated, free/ experience what life may be…" Goethe's Faust_

Fanny remained wholly unaware of my inner shame and hard feelings against me. She clasped my hand even tighter, pointing at one out of the two derelict beehives.

"Ya sees? There, there, 'ave a butchers!"

My eyes followed her trembling index, and I could make out motion around the entrance, and a low, buzzing sound.

"They's back!" Fanny clapped her round little hands together with exuberant glee, positive she had rendered me a big service. "An' ya wanna know what, Aunt Cathy? You wanna know 'ow I did it? My, I was ever so smart. I see the wild bees awready out'n about when I picked flowers fer yer breakfast, and I thinks: If they's a fing they like better than flowers, why it's honey, ain't that right? So I takes the honeycomb from the jar an' I puts it in one 'ive, an' I puts the lidless jar into th'other 'un, an' now look…!"

She was enraptured, but I too tense to have patience.

"Fanny me lass, pray what do we want wiv bees, I'd like ter know? No doubt you've wasted our honey, an' now we'll 'ave ter go wivout any for our breakfast. I really am very angry wiv ya."

But it was impossible to diminish the girl's delight. "Onna contrary, Aunt Cathy! What honey I took, the bees'll have collected in less than a couple days. An' if we can get 'em ter stay, innit, they'll maike more an' ever more, an' we'll 'ave more honey than we could ask for!"

I simply could not resist her when she looked up at me this way, radiating.

"Tha's all very fine, Fanny, but 'ave you thought how to reap the honey an' how ter get it outta them combs? If they's enough of 'em by the time, they will most probably sting ye to death."

"Oh, no." She looked shocked by the idea, but earnestly shook her unruly redhead. "I knows how that's done. Mildred told me."

"And who's Mildred, may I ask?"

"A girl what can teach me. 'er mudder keeps bees, she says, an' they use a centrifudge ter maike the honey." She propelled her arms in a vague, windmill-sort-of-way.

"That's a centrifuge, darling. What sort of girl is that Mildred, anyway?"

"She's from a farm", my niece informed me, nodding into an eastern direction with her chin, since she was still busy flapping her limbs. "O'er there."

"Right." I frowned doubtfully, passing my hand over my sweaty face. "If ye can promise me nobody – that's you or Mildred – can come to any harm, you may keep those bees. Though I cannot but wonder what ye're gonna do wiv the galleons of honey ya seems ter expect."

"Ah, we can sell it, Mildred an' me!" Fanny explained eagerly, "we could sell the honey, an' Mildred's muv is gonna give us some flowers an' veg from 'er garden. We could stand inna marketplace!"

She climbed onto an upset empty barrel, formed a funnel with her two hands and shouted: "Pretty flowers, pretty flowers! Cornflower, sunflower, cauliflower! Come, buy!"

I shook my head, laughing despite myself, but I felt the darkness in my soul lighten a little. "That's fantastic. You're gonna have a great career, from here right through to Covent Garden!"

"By Cripes!" She stepped down from the barrel, suddenly aware of her dirty clothing, and quickly brushed down her front with a maidenly gesture. "An' I will maike a success of it."

She tilted her head to one side, smiling irresistibly sweet. "We've never 'ad a lot of bees before, 'ave we, auntie?"

oooOOOooo

I was sceptic, but by the time Mary and John had come down from London to settle in our little household, Fanny's project was ripe to be launched on the unsuspecting denizens of the neighbouring market town. Mildred, her teenage partner in crime, was her superior for about a foot and two stone, and of a mercantile inclination. I met her mother, the wife of a near-by farmer, to have a word about the girls' plans, and met with reassurance as to Mildred's entitlement to selling the products of the family's garden in a public place, plus, that my "jolly daughter" was welcome to have a part in this enterprise.

The question was now about gleaning honey.

Mildred's father, a professional beemaster, outfitted the girls with safety suits and showed them how to handle the hives, how to open and close them carefully so as to watch the colony, and later, to take out the honeycombs. To my surprise, the animals actually multiplied and settled for production. Fanny regularly invited me out and amazed me with fresh morsels of her adeptness.

"This is the queen, ya sees?" she called over the burr, painting a gloved finger at one of the specimen that seemed bigger than and segregated from the rest. It bore a light blue dot on its back, I noticed. "Mr. Faraday showed us to mark 'er out, so we'd know 'er from the others. She's gonna 'ave all the babies of 'er tribe, can ya imagine that?"

"No", I retuned weakly, supporting my gigantic belly on both hands entwined.

"The men do nuthin'", Fanny proceeded, "They're called drones, an' they're jus' hanging around all day, 'xcept fer mating flights. An' those are the workers. Be careful, auntie."

I winced inside my trellised helmet as she stepped forward and removed the panel to reveal another section of the hive's interior, with deft fingers.

"They're working as a team", Fanny continued her lecture on a poor, ignorant relative. "They's some what build the combs, an' some what rear the babies, an' some what collect pollen from the wild flowers. It's a fact'ry, kind of, like the 'un grandda used ter work at. On'y they don't do metal ware, they do nectar an' more bees."

Thus initiated, I humbly vanished to leave the great work to be done by those who had the prowess and the knowledge.

Holmes was not too excited about our warden's new passion.

"Bees!" he huffed. "Pray what is that supposed to mean? Is there any sense in dressing up as a boggle and dabbling with swarms of dangerous, potentially malevolent insects?"

"There ain't much of a risk in it, actually", I reassured him. "The beekeeper showed them exactly how to do ever'thing, else I would not allow the girls ter go near the hives. It's a nice pastime, too. Imagine they'd see unfitting persons or wear them short skirts what can be seen on London streets now. You wouldn't imagine the havoc young girls play these days."

"On your head be it then, Kitty", Holmes concluded. "But what's the _thrill_, I wonder?"

"Why – " I hesitated, "they're interesting animals. I guess if you chose to pay them some attention, ya'd come ter fink the same. Didn't ya taike the most vivid interest in the jostlin' people in the inner London area? Well, a beehive is not so very different. It's just smaller and less erratic. There's a system in there, a working one."

"Hum - " He would not admit the validity of my argument, but at least kept his peace about our buzzing, humming in-mates.

oooOOOooo

The big day came, and the farmer took down the roof of the hive under the saucer-wide eyes of Fanny, and the more contained gazes from Mildred, Mary Watson and me.

The combs were removed from the hives and the centrifuge set up to spin the honeycombs and thus extract the cold honey. The girls filled the runny result into clean preserving jars and let us taste it with warm wheat bread. The honey was clear and golden, with a bitter side taste to its sweetness that I was unaccustomed with from the honey commercially available in the City. In any event, it qualified as for local sale.

"You come an' try some too, uncle John!" Fanny cried out waving at Watson who was meandering over the downs in a distance, but he was out of earshot and only raised the tip of his walking stick to hail us. My niece was frustrated, but kept up appearances of an indifferent deli vendour. "Well, well, who else wants to taste it? Mr. 'olmes di'n't 'ave any. You bring 'im out!" she all but ordered Mildred, who, in spite of her years and greatness of frame, was totally henpecked by capable little Fanny. Off she stamped to find my husband in his study, and Mary and I had all the amusement of watching him through the rear windows, trying to shrug off the insistent peasant girl.

"You know?" Mary chuckled after Holmes had persuaded Mildred to vanish from his room, "we should do something to support the girls. I saw a derelict old hay trailer in yonder shed on my evening walk with John. If he is prepared to help us, we might refurbish it to serve as a market cart. What do you think?"

I watched her from beneath my lashes, simultaneously moved and suspicious. Of course it was wonderful Mary cared so much for Fanny. She had brought lots of clasps and straps and ribbons and all kind of frippery from London, just to be good friends with my warden. But there was something self-defeatingly sad in her efforts to pet and pamper the kid. Mary would never have children. Her anatomy strictly forbade it.

"Yeah, awright. We can do that", I consented hesistatingly.

"Wonderful! I already found out about market days. If we can be ready in two weeks, that would just coincide with the celery harvest!"

She smiled at me, turning away quickly as Fanny called for her help with the honey jars.

"Coming, love!"

I observed her running back to the girl, almost tripping over her feet in her eagerness.

"Do not forget to breathe", a calm voice advised me as the window was drawn up next to my elbow, and pipe smoke curled into my nostrils. I swallowed and turned my head. Sherlock smiled his supercilious smile, taking the pipe from his lips in order to stretch his longish body, next to him, Ginger Jack hopped on the window sill, performing a very similar movement. I smiled back, insecurely. There had been no animosity, but also no tender moment between us since the slap.

He put the stem back between his teeth, hooking thumbs into his vest and puffing pensively, eyes directed at the couple, girl and woman, who were this minute rejoined by Mildred. Mary put her arms around the shoulders of both children, laughing out loud at some pun Fanny had made.

"I'm sorry for her, that's all." I took a deep breath before I could smile again. He nodded, almost solemnly.

"So am I. There is tragedy in it, if there is anything."

Yes – yes, so true. I felt my flesh grow goose bumps as he said the word, not knowing whether I was thinking about Mary or myself. Tragedy. Indeed, there was tragedy in the air.

I turned around and kissed him as if the slap had never been.

oooOOOooo

The projected fortnight until the next market day passed swiftly. Although I was not a big help and John had to do nearly everything about the hay cart, it was a pretty diversion, and relieved my discomfort to a degree where I hardly gave it thought.

We wiped the cobwebs from the vehicle and ground away the dirt of decades from the sash bars. Mildred had a little pony of her own and proudly brought the bridle to be fitted to the wain, while Watson was crouching on the ground to fix rims and rods.

With the sacrifice of a couple of soiled pinafores and trousers, sores and scratches and an untimely attack of lumbago, we were finished at the appointed day.

Fanny had not been idle meanwhile and dug deep into Mary's London treasury to design outfits for Mildred and herself. They were wearing simple, bucolic array, tunic dresses, aprons and the crisp white bonnets our grandmothers had ceased to wear because they were out of fashion. To say the word, they were lovely.

Even Mildred, who was not an attractive child, looked like a Renoir pastoral today, seated on top of the cart, which we had richly adorned with lady's smock, and filled with all the productivity of her mother had yielded: lettuce, garden radish, turnips, daffodils, primroses and tulips. The honey jars, Fanny had carefully placed in a basket and covered with a tartan cloth.

All of us were there to admonish the girls or to wish them good luck: John, who yoked Mildred's Tinker which seemed in jeopardy of breaking down under the mere amount of its mane, tail and leg hair, Mary, fussing with the girls and freely handing out good advice, and even Sherlock, next to me.

"Awright!" Fanny had finally mounted the coach seat next to Mildred, who dutifully passed her the reins and whip. "We'll be back from town by nightfall. No separation, no going with strangers, no driving off the road. Is there anyfink else?"

"There's not, lovey. We didn't mean to school you. Just be careful, both of you!" Mary declared as Fanny raised her whip with dignity, slowly turned the cart and rolled out of the yard, under repeated promises to bring back plenty of "bees".

I reached for Sherlock's hand, and we discreetly smiled at each other. I trust both of us thought the same, namely, that Fanny's ride into town meant her first independent step away from home and, in a way, her rite of passage. Watson seemed to think the same. Folding his arms on his back and looking after his wife, who ran behind the cart and waved her handkerchief, he chuckled.

"She seemed a little girl when I first saw her, but I have an idea Fanny is now growing into a young woman. She has such – power and spirit of enterprise."

"She is growing into a strong-headed shrew with the face of an angel but a horrible working class accent, prone to contradict and liable to everything that will create chaos. We're familiar with that species", Holmes contributed composedly, evading my cat that tried to rub against his leg.

The men seemed to have need of a stroll and smoke in the barnyard, so I went after Mary, who still stood by the garden gate to survey the girl's safe departure. Their cart was now far removed, sometimes visible as it was rocking in the fresh morning breeze, sometimes hidden by hills, until it had completely disappeared from sight.

My friend issued a deep sigh. I patted her hand to forestall tears, when with a shaky voice she said: "You're a lucky woman, Kitty Holmes. I wonder if you know how lucky you are."

I meant to reply, but all of a sudden I knew that if I opened my mouth, I would most certainly _vomit_. Mary went on talking, but I could not listen. My legs went warm and wet within fractions of a second, and cold sweat stood on my brow. Nothing more was needed to let me know my time had come.

Mary's flow of words was interrupted by a harsh start. "Good God, Kitty, you're bleeding! You're – oh sweet Lord!"

I threw up convulsively across the gate while Mary's steady arm twined around my midst to steady me. In the haze of my nausea, I heard her calling: "Quickly Mr. Holmes, John – JOHN!"

**So, dear readers! The moment we have waited for has arrived. I've read your gender suppositions and we will most certainly know more next chapter. See you there! **

**Love, Mrs. F**


	94. Chapter 94

Chapter 94: For whom the bells toll

6th April 1888

"_Two souls, alas! Are dwelling in my breast." Goethe's Faust_

The wave came back. It came crashing in, into my consciousness, my shivering nerve system. It racked my body and mind until I thought I could take no more, then, slowly, painfully slowly, ebbed away. I lay gasping, awaiting the next impact of that ravaging inner tide which would inevitably come.

"Hush, Kitty, hush. You're doing well!", Mary's whispering voice reassured me, somewhere about the region my eyes could not conceive just now, maybe by my side, maybe at my feet. I waited. Deadly afraid of its force, I waited for the next wave. And it returned.

I thought it would rip me open. My mind rebelled; I did not want to die! Perhaps I screamed, perhaps I writhed under the torture. When it was over the next time, I found myself clinging to something soft, crying like a little girl. Stop it, stop it. I could not take it anymore. By cripes, I could not.

"Have no fear, Kitty. It's only the labour-pain", Watson's calm, soothing voice reached my ear, like salve on an open wound. I panted, staring ahead of me with teary, unseeing eyes. I could not die. I could not. But never had the experience seemed so close, not in the Ripper`s cellar, not in the splash from Gruner's vitriol bottle, not in the cold, sucking bog in Ireland. Watson was right to soothe me. It was not the pain I feared, it was plain, irrevocable, horrible dissolution. And he knew that.

oooOOOooo

The cigarette stubs piled high on the hearthrug when Watson stepped into the study. The window was flung open, so the air was breathable, but the overflowing ashtray on the table told its own story.

"Well?Well?" Another stub described a neat sinuous trajectory before it dropped onto the flaky mat. Hasty fingers searched a silver case for the next smoke. "She is fine, isn't she? I had always known. Kitty has the strength of a plow horse, but for all looking flimsy and exsanguinous. It's all in here, you know." The index, warping away from the fresh fag, tipped against a sweaty temple. "The brain, isn't it? It is the seat of all human being. A sound brain generates a sound body. I never tell her so, but, doctor, she has a _cerebrum _others would kill for."

"No doubt she has." Watson folded his hands on his back and tried to make eye contact with his old friend, but Holmes went on as if he wanted to make up for a month spent under vow of silence.

"Naturally. Nothing else is to be expected, considering her hereditary equipment. Her mother bore three, her sister five sound children. It would be folly to reckon on difficulties. Really, it is a blessing, doctor, that the working class are so much more survivors than our own effete walk of life. Induration, that's the key. Take her brother. The man is tougher than coffin nails, sailing the world as he does, under the harshest possible circumstances. The family traits…"

"Holmes!" Watson sharply interrupted.

His partner's gesticulating hand stopped in mid-air, his bearing turned as slack as his face turned intense. Gazes were exchanged between the men. Holmes' voice had become thinner, to a degree almost indistinguishable, when next he spoke.

"You have something to communicate, doctor. Something unpleasant, I deduce." He went over to the fireplace where two seats had been installed, just as in the old sitting room in Baker Street. Holmes took a seat, hands twitching for his cigarette case, but thinking better of it. Instead, he indicated the opposite chair with a wave of his hand. "Please."

Watson followed the instruction, hesitatingly, but driven by an irresistible feeling of duty. Crossing his legs, he cleared his voice to come to the point directly.

"You are correct, old chap, it is uncomfortable. You know I'd spare you every pain I can, but withholding the news from you is impossible. I must to my regret tell you that Kitty has developed eclampsia. She's having fits and her blood pressure is more than worrisome."

Holmes' features did not move at all. "Will she make it through?" he asked, calmer now his misgivings had been confirmed.

The doctor inclined his head. "I'm positive. She'll recover, but she'll never have children after this."

Sherlock's brows writhed painfully. "And the – and the babe?"

"Holmes…"He did not know where to look, what to do with his hands. "An eclampsia is, as you know, a hypertensive disease extremely liable to affect the unborn. However, a child does not at this stage possess a heart strong enough to counter the strain. The chances, I'm afraid, are very slim. We must prepare for the worst and do what we can to support Kitty. Her tender womanhood will generate grief not to be imagined by a gentleman, no matter how hard…"

He broke off. This was not the way to approach a man who was not, in spite of all hopes, going to be a father. Nobody would know better than he.

"I'm awfully sorry, my boy."

Immovable was not the word to describe the face of the man sitting opposite to him. It was more as if Holmes' face had turned into stone. Every muscle petrified, he sat erect, like a statue, gazing into thin air.

Watson waited. He was a medical man. He knew that grief has to take its time to come to the surface. After five minutes of utter silence, however, he got up slowly. "It is getting late. I must be back."

He put his hand on the shoulder of his rigid friend, a human frame frozen into impassivity. Ice, it fleetingly crossed his mind. He has ever been most of an ice chunk when most affected. Turning his back on the hardest task of his whole life, he advanced the door and was almost out of the room when a sharp exclamation alerted him, like a ruler slashed across a table top.

"Wait!"

Wearily, he turned back. "Yes, old chap?"

Sherlock had not risen, or even left his posture. He had just directed his eyes at the doctor, that familiar, piercing stare that left nothing undetected.

"Are you sure there is nothing to be done? No…measures you can think of to save him?"

His tone was not desperate or beseeching. It was stern, commanding; a general's appeal to his field strategist. Watson frowned, slowly closing the door again.

"Technically, no. The disease has been deadly in the majority of cases for both mother and child. You may consider yourself lucky, seeing that your wife has good chances to survive."

"Survive, yes." Holmes got up, ruffling his hair, nervous activity alternating with impassivity again. "But not to conceive anymore afterwards! This is the very chance, the only chance, Watson, for us to have a son. Think, man, think of something to rescue him, if you love us!"

His friend gravely shook his head. "I cannot, Holmes, indeed I cannot. I had to bring you these evil tidings, but I need to return to my patient. Kitty shall not suffer unnecessarily. Will you not desist and finally allow yourself to...mourn?"

"No. No, no." His friend fiercely shook his head. "You must know a way. You – an astute scientist – a grace to your profession – you never failed me – never -". He flung himself down into his seat again, and buried his face in his hands.

John gritted his teeth. This man was one out of two people in the world he could not bear to see suffer. Mary had lost children, ever before her time had come. How could he stand by and watch his best friend lose a full-grown baby, just at the moment he had hoped to hold it in his arms?

He cleared his voice.

"You might…in theory, mind…conduct a cesarean. It has been the _modus operandi _ in dangerous cases for a couple of years. You may have read about the horizontal cut the Germans are using these days. The chances of survival for the mother are, after all, around fifty percent versus almost zero with the heretofore used vertical cut."

The other man's hands limply fell into his lap. "50 percent? And for the child?"

Watson uncomfortably raised his shoulders. "The child might be saved with near certainty. But Kitty…."

"Pshaw, Watson!" The old gleam was back in the eye. "50 percent is something, it is a solid chance! Compared to the certain loss of the child, should you stick by the conservative course. Kitty is in her prime, and powerful of both body and mind. If anyone could make it, it is her."

Watson inhaled sharply. "You cannot possibly suggest to gamble with your wife's life, Holmes. You did so before, and though she lived, you came to regret it."

A cloud came over Sherlock's enthusiasm. "I count on you, Watson. You couldn't let down someone so very dependent on your help, not you. It is – so important. Kitty's death would unsettle me, I admit. But to sentence to death the only child I'll ever have …I cannot bring myself to do it."

"It needn't be the only child." Watson's compassion had given way to first indignation, then seething cynicism. "There are more girls where Kitty came from. I dare say you'll find an acceptable substitute."

Sherlock made an impatient gesture to fend off his words without really taking offence. "No, it has to be Kitty or none. I chose her for certain reasons and I have been confirmed in my view that her genetic makeup is the perfect complement to mine. Not only does she possess courage, strength and spirit, but also the more womanly skills that I lack – empathy, intuition, personal appeal. Our child will be an investigative genius, and it will be safe, if there is anything I can do, anything I can sacrifice. Anything."

The doctor was taken aback by his words, torn between horror and fascination with what in all his experience with Sherlock Holmes came closest to a declaration of love, or obsession for that matter. He thought quickly. There was not an awful lot of time left. Holmes' calculating of chances sounded abhorrent, yet reasonable. He might yet be justified. And on top of all, there was the appalling conviction that if he failed his closest friend, best man, life-saver and long-time companion, he would never again be a happy man. On the other hand, the problem was that –

"I see." He calmly folded his hands on his stomach. "There is one more thing you should know ere we make a final decision, Holmes. I have never before this day conducted a cesarean on my own, vertical or horizontal. Oh, I have watched several times during my studies and at the scientific congress in Vienna – but I didn't do so much as hold a single forceps. Consider that."

Holmes stepped closer, a mad fire aglow in his face. Oh yes, there was fire as well, somewhere beneath the ice, Watson had noticed from time to time. "Yes, but…CAN you do it, Watson?" he croaked, feverishly.

Pity threatened to sway him once more, but Watson managed to stay firm and aloof. "I will certainly try my best, Holmes. I would not if I had no faith in my surgical abilities. But you must keep in mind I can guarantee no success."

No more words were necessary. In silence, the highly-strung, gaunt man reached out for the hand of the doctor, and he shook it slowly and without warmth.

On his way out, he saw Holmes from the corner of his eyes, hunting for the cigarette case yet again.

oooOOOooo

"How did he take it?" Mary whispered, once the door had closed. "Oh John, I just wish I could do something for them. Kitty is suffering so badly."

"You will get a chance at least", he grimly replied. "Mary, do you feel yourself ready to assist me in my first attempt at a cesarean section?"

"In a…?" Her face fell. He nodded gravely.

"But John! That doesn't make any sense. Kitty has lost enough blood as it is. We cannot risk subjecting her to a surgical intervention like this…?"

"Dear", Watson softly said. "This is for the husband to decide."

It took a moment for this to sink in. Then, comprehension began to dawn on Mary's tight face. She shook her head violently. "Oh no. No way, John."

"Mary…." He tried to snatch her by the elbow, but she yanked herself free.

"I absolutely refuse! You should be ashamed of yourself, agreeing to be this selfish man's ready instrument. Do you have no feeling for her? Oh, yes, she may be only a woman, not the wonderful brain that so liberally sends her into chances of death, but still she remains a human being!"

She worked herself into a fury. The only thing he could do was to try and hush her. "Be silent Mary. I already decided to operate. And he will hear you."

"So what do I care?" she hissed. "Let him hear all about the state of that room over there, all the sweat and blood and vomit! He may lock himself away from her torment, but he shall know about it all the same!"

"Mary, please…"

"I have had enough John! I have had enough of your constant defense of this heartless wretch! All he cares for is himself and his precious brood. Did or did he not save Kitty from the Ripper merely because you told him she was pregnant?"

"I told you this confidentially", Watson returned with a certain asperity. "I regret it now."

For an instant he was afraid she would slap him. Instead, she reached out for his arm, beseeching him. "John", she calmly said. "I care for Kitty just as you care for Sherlock. The idea of exposing her to this seems intolerable. I regret we cannot restore her baby to her, but the least we might do is save her. You must see that everything else is insanity. Why, you have no idea how to do this, have you?"

"I think I can cope", came his stiff reply. "If, however, you would offer your services to me as an assistant; that would be more fruitful than this discussion. Quite frankly, I will need one."

Mary took a step back, measuring him with cold eyes. "I am sorry John, but that won't be me. I will have no hand in this."

She turned on her heel and walked straight out of the house. John took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.

**Hi, guys!**

**Hooohoo, suspense! I started this story when? Ah, three years ago it says. So it may be about time to get to an end. Excited?**

**You better had be! There are some five chapters or so yet to come. Have fun!**

**Love, mrs.F**


	95. Chapter 95

Chapter ninety-five: Magic technique

6th April 1888

„_If you're a man, then feel my misery!" Goethe's Faust_

When I woke once more from unconsciousness, it was to return to crucifying pain and unclear thoughts, chasing each other in my blurry mind. _Sherlock, Sherlock. Why aren't you here? _

I felt myself sinking. My strength was running out. The strength I needed to counter the torment that left me breathless; strength to struggle against the restraint on my limbs. I wanted to giggle, but could not muster the power to do so. _As I was walking down the lake, I saw a little rattlesnake…._Tears trickled down my face as labour seized me again, tossing me around at its will with thrusts of dolor deep down in my swollen body. Diffuse pictures passed me by.

_I gave it so much jelly cake, it made his little belly ache…..Oh what fun! Mr. 'olmes, Mr. 'olmes! Wait fer me…fer me an' the chavies….baby, baby! Hold him tight, he'll fall!_

I started wildly when somebody seized my strangely immovable thighs just as fierce convulsions set in. My head flung to the side, I relieved myself of my stomach contents. There was no strength left to retch, so I lay limply in my own dirt, more tears trickling across my face, cumulating at the tip of my nose.

Heedless of what else was happening to me, I closed my eyes, leaving myself to oblivion. _One, two, three…out goes she…_

oooOOOooo

Dr. Watson was, despite his comparatively modest reputation, a quick thinker out of habit and emergency. He wasted no private thought on what he regarded as the blackest treason on Mary's part since ever they had known each other, and instead considered his options. Drawing back was not such a one since he had shaken hands upon the decision, and even if it was a foul bargain, he would be damned if he broke the word solemnly given to his friend. So, he had to see this through, with or without Mary's succor.

The urgency of the operation forbade every notion of getting help from without. If a cesarean was expected to make any sense at all, it was now or never. Kitty had been in labour for too long to risk any more delay. Apart from her and his own self; there were two more people left in the house. Mrs. Hudson was good for little more than changing linen and cleaning away the bile the exhausted girl issued forth at regular intervals, she was endued with no medical training whatsoever, and she had nerves.

There was no avoiding Holmes be drawn into this business. And why not? The man knew no nerves whatsoever, his hands were nimble to a degree equaling any tolerably capable surgeon. He could work with Holmes. The only difficulty he could see was to get the man, profoundly hostile to concerns of the body and of femininity in particular, to perform this duty. But that was out of his hands.

He turned as the landlady silently came out of the sick room, clandestinely wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She gave him a look – half questioning, half urging him, as a heathen worshipper would have looked up to his idol, expecting him to bring about a miracle and achieve the impossible. He sternly returned her gaze.

"You will heat water and prepare sterilized sheets, quickly, Mrs. Hudson. Make the patient drink some, lest she be dehydrated through her constant sickness. Force her if necessary. I shall narcotize her presently, and start to operate in the quarter of an hour."

She looked at him, startled. "Operation – but doctor! How – wherefore - ?"

His head flung round. "Just _do_ it, Mrs. Hudson", he snapped, in a manner she had seldom had to suffer from this quarter.

oooOOOooo

The cigarette case on the desk was empty now. Its owner, his back turned to it, gently cleared his throat. "There is no way out of it, I suppose?"

"None." Watson eyed him in cool blood. "You must assist me in this or all is lost."

"Then be it so. We have seen through many things, why not an operation. I'm going to wash my hands. Yes."

Holmes bowed his head for a tiny moment, as if to check the carpet for footmarks that were not there. Then he inhaled deeply and exited the room. In the doorframe, he closely avoided collision with Mrs. Hudson. The landlady, her face white as flour, stepped before the doctor, an empty mug in her hand.

"I gave her what she could take in her state. It was quite necessary to wake her up, the poor thing had passed out again."

"Thank God for every minute she is spared", Watson earnestly replied. "We will put her to permanent unconsciousness now. Did you unstrap her arms and thighs?"

The woman nodded anxiously.

"Good. Then let us begin."

oooOOOooo

The room seemed smaller than usual, with the three people in it that didn't belong there. Kitty lay sprawled on the bed, she did not resist any more. Her eyes were closed, breath going faintly but regularly. Watson felt his companion's eyes roam her. He emanated an aversion the doctor had often sensed in husbands that were allowed to the childbed, only as a more powerful, profound emotion – a passion, one might say.

Kitty's beautiful long hair was drenched in sweat; it was dark and had knotted into a thick meshwork, like cobwebs or impermeable brambles in the wood. The simple shift she wore was a mess in spite of Mrs. Hudson's efforts – the young woman had repeatedly bemired herself, sputum showed on garment and bloodied bed sheet. The encrustation around her eyes and lips gave evidence of long hours spent sobbing, crying and suffering.

It seemed, however, that this feeling, strong as it may be, was still under Holmes' control, he did not bat an eye, instead calmly enquired: "What is to be done?"

Watson spared him not.

"Mrs. Hudson, you will cut the fabric of the dress so I can unstitch the abdominal wall. Both of you will take care of the blood discharge as I work. Some organs will have to be shifted aside, so have your forcipes ready. The disinfectant, Holmes."

He raised his razor-sharp scalpel to the light, from the corner of his eye probing the hardihood of his assistants. But to his relief, both Holmes and Mrs. Hudson hurried to do as they were told, without contradiction.

oooOOOooo

It was a soft, clement spring evening, so he decided to have his smoke out of doors. Drawing on his pipe and leaning against the door frame, Watson reviewed the day from first to last, watching his smoke rings as the passed into the falling dusk.

He felt fatigue draw near, but his gaze was still so alert as to discern the approaching figure in the yard. A shadowy female silhouette slipped through the darkness and into the circle of light thrown on the cobble stones by the door lamp.

"John?"

Her golden hair hidden beneath her small toque, Mary's eyes looked up from the small face, pleading and anxious. "Is it all over now?"

"Yes." He did not do her the courtesy to put out his pipe as perhaps he would have at another time, instead gazed at her indifferently. "All over. It is a boy."

Her little hands formed fists, propping up the tight, anxious face. "And Kitty?"

He took a deep draught from his pipe and exhaled. "She'll live."

"Oh, thank God for that", Mary whispered, clasping her hands across her mouth as if to stifle a prayer. It took her a moment to recover; then she reached out to touch his arm. "John? Did she have much more to suffer?"

He laughed without gaiety. "She was unconscious, Mary. Better ask what we had to suffer, Holmes, and Mrs. Hudson and I with him. All would have fared infinitely better had you been there when you were needed."

"Well, I am a coward." Her face tightened again. "You know I am."

"You're nothing of the sort." He angrily bit his pipe stem. "Why did you do this Mary? For God's sake, why did you fail me? It is quite unforgivable."

She lowered her head. "I…I didn't think…"

"What? What is the matter? Do you hate him so much? Or were you afraid of the child Kitty would have, reminding you constantly of your own childlessness?"

She flinched as though she had been hit. Watson lowered his pipe.

"Forgive me. That was beyond the pale. Forgive me, Mary."

The way her blue eyes watered slightly as they looked up at him told him he had guessed at least at a half-truth. Shaken at the extremity of the moment, he drew her to his chest and held her tight. "Oh Mary, Mary. My poor girl", he whispered in consternation.

They remained like this for a couple of minutes.

"What about the children?" he asked in the end; stroking her hair absent-minded.

"I fetched them from town", came her muffled answer from somewhere in his collar. "Everything is arranged for Fanny to stay the night at Mildred's."

"Oh, good."

"Has Kitty returned to consciousness yet?"

"She woke up an hour ago. She's weak of course, so I left them alone for a bit. Mrs. Hudson has bathed the little one. Do you want to see him?"

She stepped back a little, freeing herself from his grasp to re-establish eye contact.

"I'd love to, darling."

He briefly pressed her hand before they turned inside.

oooOOOooo

Mrs. Hudson intercepted the pair of them at the door to the sick room. "Asleep again, doctor", she whispered, then stepped aside and motioned them to enter.

Following her husband, Mary went in, her eyes immediately settling on the sleeping woman in the bed. Kitty looked white, positively bloodless, with even her lips drained of colour. They had not been able yet to put her into a clean nightdress, and there was a strange look to her, with cheek bones sticking out and her beautiful hair gone. She might have seemed an urchin or very young beggar girl in an undisturbed slumber, were it not for the flaming cicatrices, now clearly visible on her bare neck.

Holmes was sitting on a stool a little aside, next to the cot that had been brought in from the nursery. His head did not lift at their entry, nor had he words for anyone, simply looking down into the small cradle with an indefinable look on his clear cut features. Watson signed for her to step closer, and as she bent across the frilly rim, she could see him beneath the small coverlet Kitty had worked for him the last months.

He was of a usual size, his bare head a little small in proportion. The face, framed by tiny fists resting left and right of it on the pillow, was round, with eyes a little slanted in a way that resembled neither Holmes nor Kitty. From his complexion, he would n all possibility not be a redhead, but it was difficult to tell.

"He's beautiful", she whispered, raising her hand from the rim and approaching the little form. "May I…?"

For the first time since her arrival, Holmes's head was raised, or rather, flew up, and two glowing eyes bored into hers. It took him but a moment to recover and to mutter: "Naturally", but she had winced at his look, and awkwardly retreated from the cot.

Kneeling down beside the bed, she passed her hand across the sleeping friend's cool forehead.

"She won't have another child, you said?" she whispered.

"No", Watson replied. "Young Sheridan will remain a single child."

"Maybe it is better this way." Slowly and deliberately she stroked the forehead, the bony cheeks. Holmes did not seem to react. He was simply looking down into the cradle.

Mary took the thin, limp hand of the sleeper and lightly pressed it to her cheek. "What happened to her hair?"

"It was in the way, my dear. Mrs. Hudson had to cut it off with a cloth scissors. She could not have worked it through with a comb anyway, it was far too tangled."

"How awful for her." Mary placed the hand back by Kitty's side, drawing up the blanket so that her blemishes might be concealed at least for the moment.

"Well, it'll grow back, won't it?" Watson said, softly. He reached for her arm, raising her from the bedside. "Come, dearest. We should leave now, there is nothing more to be done until the morning."

"Certainly…" Her eyes wavered between the still form on the bed and the hunched figure by the cot.

"They'll be fine", Watson urged her in a low tone.

"I'm sure." She sighed briefly. "Good night to you, Mr. Holmes."

There was no turn of the head, no reply as they withdrew from the room. Mary's last glimpse showed her Holmes, sitting there, simply looking down into the cradle.

**Heyhoo! Satisfied? Were your bets confirmed, or were you taken by surprise? There have been some wild guesses indeed. But we're not yet quite finished here….:-)**


	96. Chapter 96

Chapter ninety-six: The end of the song

7th April 1888

"_And hopeful towards infinity expanded/ When in time's eddy joy on joy's been stranded…." Goethe's Faust_

I woke up at midday, judging by the light streaming through the windows into my room. My first perception was that of pain, memories resurged of all I had been through. I moaned softly.

"Kitty? By Jove, I thought you would sleep forever."

My second thought was of Sherlock. A shaky smile was all I could do as he appeared above me, bending low to touch my forehead with his lips. The next thought was about my child. My mind, dull and sluggish, hesitantly forwarded a recollection of him, held by arms that were not mine. They had shown him to me, briefly, before I fell asleep again, but Dr. Watson had ignored my pleading for the permission to hold him.

"You are too weak", he had told me, fatherly, and I cannot not remember much else, so I presume he was right, as mostly he was.

I have no recollection of Sherlock sitting with me.

"Hello…."

There was a resolute crying tantrum rising in the background, and I instinctively raised my arms.

"Kitty - !"

He gave me a stern look, which I returned, and I must have given the very picture of pathos, for he rose and went away to get him.

My arms were heavy, and feeble, and almost gave way under the weight of the warm little bundle he handed down to me.

"Careful, now", he directed me hoarsely, steadying my arms so that I could lie with baby against my chest. He had stopped crying within the instant I held him, and I craned my head as best I could to meet his eyes, dark and curiously almond-shaped, gazing up at me.

"This is your son, Sheridan." I briefly looked up at Sherlock, whose solemn expression amazed and touched me. "You have had him through many dangers."

My mind was still hazy and langorous. "What 'appened? I felt loike I was dying…"

"You very nearly died."

He rose from the bedside, leaving the child to my care, and stood with his back to me, looking out of the window as he always did when troubled by a rare bout of emotion.

"But I'm alive", I softly said. "Me an' baby, we're alive."

"Oh, through the doctor's good care". He waved his hand as if waving away unwanted thanks, as though it were not understood I owed everything to Watson. I knew that well. It could not have been a normal birth, even I, a mother for the first time, could tell that.

"'ow did 'e pull me through?" I croaked, shifting the boy's weight in my arms. He had closed his eyes, peacefully sucking at his small hand.

"An operation was called for in order to….save both of you." He swallowed hard, and, turning around, forced a smile. "Let me take him again. Mrs. Hudson will be here presently to wash and dress you."

I was most unwilling to let the child go, but he insisted. Taking him from the room, he left me to our landlady. She was most kind and understanding, and even helped me into the restroom as I felt the need. Afterwards, I was transported to the bath tub.

"It was a cesarean they had to try on you", she explained to me, while opening the buttons of my nightshift for me. "We had tied you to the bed, but it was no use, you resisted violently, madam. So we had to administer chloroform. I gave it to you myself", she professed with a guilty mien, as though admitting an attempt to poison me.

"Yes." I slowly massaged my wrists, the aching red streaks of which were now accounted for. "I think I remember."

"You poor lady", Mrs. Hudson tutted, helping me to my feet and in front of the mirror. "So much affliction, and so bravely borne. Now, let us take off that shift…"

I looked into the mirror. A stranger peered back at me, wearing my face, yes, but dreadfully hollowed and shrunken. There was no hair to cover the skin, damaged beyond repair, from my earlobe downwards. All at once, it ended at the pitch of my chin. I raised my hand, the stranger's hand, to brush the ends in bewilderment.

"I did that, too", Mrs. Hudson owned quietly.

I hardly listened. My eyes trailed down at the pale, cadaverous body, haggard arms hanging to the left and right, the dirty nightdress clinging to it like a shroud. On the whole, I had the impression to look on the victim of a vampire feast, bloodless, sucked dry. I shivered, disgusted at the sight.

"It was quite necessary, madam", Mrs. Hudson continued, making me lift my arms so she could slip the garment over my head. "It got in their way, you see, so they asked me to cut it off, during the operation."

I did not wish to look at myself, naked. Instead I let myself be helped into the hot, steaming water, toes first and then the rest. Only when I was settled did I enquire: "Who's 'they'?"

"Why, the doctor of course." Mrs. Hudson put my thinks away, to be burned, I imagine. "And Mr. Holmes. He assisted him."

I sat straighter, my head turning to follow her movements. "Mr. 'olmes? Mr. 'olmes assisted at me cesarean?"

She also turned around to make direct eye contact. "Oh yes", she only said, with a certain affirmation from her pale blue eyes.

I sank back into my bath, gnawing on my thumb. Was it possible? Could she somehow be mistaken? It seemed not plausible, Sherlock doing a thing like that. Maybe I had misjudged him, in some respects. If she was right, however, one thing was for sure: It had been damned close for both of us, Sheridan and me. It gave me much to think about.

After my bath I was put into a fresh nightdress and slept till early evening. A strong postnatal bleeding was what woke me. It had to be stilled with wad, and later on, I had to eat some supper. Mary and Dr. Watson were adamant on that, as a requirement for my holding the babe again. Afterwards, I had a visitor.

"Oh, auntie!"

Fanny rushed into the room, and would without hesitation have flown to my neck, had not Mary Watson caught her by the lap of her skirt. "Not so hasty, young lady! Your auntie is still very exhausted. You will most probably crush her, with a hug like that."

The girl approached slowly, hangdog, to kiss me demurely on the cheek. As soon as she spied little Sheridan in his quilting, however, she issued a shrill call of enthusiasm, which promptly set him crying again.

"Oh, boy! Ain't 'e re'lly wee, loike li'le Nicholas? Oh, I wisht 'e wuz 'ere, so the two of them could play together!"

"Don't be such a lumbering oaf, Fanny!" Mary scolded her, drawing her aside by the sleeve as I soothed the baby. "What nonsense you are talking sometimes. Your brother will be a toddler by this time, he and Sheridan would hardly profit from each other's company. Be off to your uncle now, shoo!"

And she banished the maid from my room, a sight of contrite disappointment.

oooOOOooo

My body healed quickly, but my thoughts often returned to the birth in order to brood on it, the mystery of the operation and the necessity for Holmes to become involved. My instinct told me there was more to the whole affair than met the eye. It was no concrete idea, just an undefined persuasion that I had been wronged.

Sheridan was four months old by the time I realized something was not right with him. He used to lie on a thick fur in front of the fireplace, and whenever I entered the room and called his name, he would not react unless I came very close. But not only did he seem hard of hearing, he also had a problem with his head: though smaller than proportion would normally allow for, his muscles did not develop at sufficient pace. He was not able to support it on his neck for any length of time, instead, it kind of lolled most of the time, hindering any budding drive for movement Sheridan might harbor. Drives for developing a system of communication, apart from crying and a charming, toothless smile, he had none at all.

Sherlock did not notice anything, or so he purported when cravenly I ventured to touch the subject. He did not see the signs- did not want to see them. Instead, he would dig up his old plans for Sheridan's education and show them to me, and I, having to pretend I saw them for the first time, had to mime surprise and a zealous participation. I did not contradict him even in his most absurd of schemes, his most bizarrely ambitious project to get our son to the very heights of the detective profession. I think I supported him out of compassion, and cowardice.

Finally, one day in October, I could stand the anxious uncertainty no longer. The point in time was a favourable one, for Sherlock had been called up to London upon an errand by an old client, and I resolved to seize the opportunity.

I rose early, earlier than anybody in the house, for I had told neither my niece nor Mrs. Hudson of my intention. Noiselessly I prepared myself and baby, put him into the elegant new perambulator we had bought shortly after his birth, and left the house, like a thief, protected by the thin mists of early morning.

To put horses to a wagonette is not comprised in my range of practical skills, however, I had knowledge of a bus going down the country side, headed for the nearby market town. Fanny had used it once or twice to get me things which could not be provided by the circumjacent farms. The trouble was to reach the stop. Sheridan's perambulator repeatedly was stuck in the mud of the road, and he accordantly cried his protest as I towed him through the bumpy places.

I was drenched in sweat when we got there, and afraid they would refuse taking us on, since the babe had succumbed to a ceaseless fit of bawling. There were almost tears in my eyes as I implored the driver to have us in. God bless him, he was a most kind and understanding sort of fellow.

"Sure you can hop on, lady. Just let me give you a hand with your pram…."

And he hauled hollering Sheridan up and inside, albeit the other passengers pulled sour faces.

By the time we came into town, the sun was high in the sky and the day began to grow a little more clement. I enquired for a paediatrist, but here my obliging driver could not serve. He indicated a direction with his thumb.

"There's a pub on the market square, ma'am. Ask there."

I was grateful for his advice, for whilst on the bus, poor baby had dirtied his swaddling clothes, much to my embarrassment and our fellow passenger's discontent. Having enquired for the departure of the last bus back to the countryside, I hurried where the driver had referred me to, and obtained permission to enter the ladies' and clean my child.

Our little journey had so tired me I had almost forgotten its purpose. It only came back to me when I sat in the least somber corner of the pub, having a glass of ale. So, when I returned it at the counter, I asked the barman: "Pardon me, would ya know of any reputable doctor hereabouts? I wanna taike me chavy ter be examined."

The grimy fellow behind the counter had an odd, sullen look, and I am not sure he would have obliged any lady with my dress and booting, but my way of talking identified me unmistakably as one of his own kind. He grudgingly replied: "There's a doctor Maynard in Barham Row. That's the other side of town." And he disappeared in the back room, giving me no chance to ask further directions.

Luckily, in a small town such as this, more or less everyone knows his way about. Still, I had to ask three pedestrians and a cart-driver before I got to Barham Row. My feet in the chic small boots hurt terribly; I was no longer used to walking the streets as once had been customary for me. The thick woolen scarf around my neck (I had to wear this away from home, until my hair had grown back) made my burnings itch.

Sighing my relief, I climbed the steps leading up to the polished brass plate bearing the name of Constantine Maynard, Dr. med. I knocked and was admitted, but Dr. Maynard apparently kept no footman, so I was forced to abandon my perambulator to the chances of a change in weather. With little Sheridan on my arm, I stepped in front of the reception desk.

A rubicond young woman raised her bespectacled face to me with a smile. "Yes please?"

I gathered the babe closer to me. "My name is Holmes, I'd like ter see the doctor about me boy, Sheridan. On'y, I ain't got no appointment."

"Would you like to make one? Perhaps next week?"

"Please", I said a little breathless, "I would like ter see 'im right now."

She frowned at me. "I'm afraid that is quite impossible. Why not come back tomorrow?"

"I live out of town", I replied, feeling myself pleading. "It is a long drive….an' a long walk…"

"Your husband really should take care of the matter. Maybe he could bring you to your appointment?"

I found it best to speak plain, if I wanted to achieve anything. "See, me 'usband don't know I'm 'ere. 'e would probably get very angry if 'e knew, tell me I was silly an' overanxious, like."

I was right, her smile was very sympathetic. "Yes, I quite understand. We get this kind of trouble often. But generally speaking, the mother mostly has got the better intuition when it gets to health matters. I shall ask the doctor, and then let us see what we can do for you, shall we? Pray have a seat in the next room while you wait."

The next room was drab and cheerless. Compared with Watson's place in London, it was even depressing. I took a seat between a pipe-smoking sailor, and a nervous looking young man who constantly cleared his voice. Waiting swiftly developed into an ordeal.

After twenty minutes or so, the reception girl returned to inform me that Dr. Maynard would see himself able to receive me after hours, at seven o'clock. I quickly turned the offer over in my mind. I would miss the last bus, but I might stay the night in a pub, I had enough money with me. On the other hand, Sherlock was expected back from London tomorrow. He would know I had been away, and he would want to know why and where. Besides which, Fanny and Mrs. Hudson would be worried for me, they probably already were. But who could know when my next chance at an appointment would be? No, no, better have done with it.

"I'll wait, then", I told the girl, firmly nodding my head.

There were five hours ahead of us. I guess I might have gone into town to get something to eat, but I was afraid to loose my place on the priority list if I went away. So I sat there. Three times I went to the ladies' room in order to suckle the child. The rest was uneasy contemplation.

The nervous man was called in first. He was dismissed soon, but meantime, a couple of fresh patients had arrived, and we were sitting crammed into the small room like herring into a bucket. I was hoping to get a few in-between moments with the physician, but as the hours passed us by I knew I hoped in vain. The clock struck ten minutes after seven when finally, the girl stepped into the waiting chamber, her prim coat, umbrella and bag indicating that she was ready to call it a day.

"He will see you know, madam", she announced with a look of pity on her vacuous face.

I muttered my thanks. Sheridan had fallen asleep on my arm, and I woke him gently. As the receptionist took her leave, I entered the consulting room, clinging fast to my child.

oooOOOooo

Dr. Maynard was a clean-shaven man with a professional, but repulsively indifferent air. He looked up from his paper only briefly to acknowledge my arrival. "Oh, you're the woman Miss Birkett told to wait?"

I lingered in the doorframe. "I am Mrs. Holmes, and this is my son Sheridan."

He made no comment, but finished his task without a hurry. At last, he flung himself back in his chair. "Well, come here, and let me have a look at the boy." He indicated the chaiselongue, and I was seated there, uneasily letting Sheridan slip off my lap.

He was astoundingly well-behaved after the long day, or maybe it was just fatigue. Dr. Maynard handled him carefully, took a look at his palm, pulled off the small socks to examine the toes and flashed his narrow eyes with a small torch.

"What's his age?" he asked without interrupting his job.

"He is half a year old, doctor."

He made a non-committal nasal sound.

I watched him for a little longer, shifting on my seat and twisting my gloves anxiously. Eventually the strain grew too much and I burst out:

"Doctor, do you think my son is very ill?"

He let Sheridan be and fixed his void, unsympathetic eyes on me.

"Mrs. Holmes", he said slowly, "Your son suffers from no acute disease that would require special treatment. However, it is my duty to inform you that he is victim to that peculiar genetic aberration first described by Dr. Langdon-Down some twenty years ago. His traits and behaviour show the unmistakable symptoms of mongolism."

I held my breath. My hands clenched painfully in the gloves. "What does that mean?" I whispered.

"It means, Mrs. Holmes", he replied without concern, "that your son is, and will remain throughout of his life, an idiot."

**:-(((( sorry if I disappointed you! I know this is a sad turn of the story. but there cannot always be a happy ending, right? Please stick with me for the last chapter, and the epilogue. **

**Love, Mrs.F**


	97. Chapter 97

Chapter ninety-seven: Cold, cold heart

„_She is judged!/ She is saved!"_

_5th October 1888_

It was ten minutes to nine precisely when I left the pub on the morrow. Having settled my bill, I clung to the perambulator in which Sheridan was still sleeping, one finger in his mouth.

We got the same driver as the day before. He kindly inquired how my business in town had come off, but did not insist when he saw I was reluctant in answering. The bus out of town was nearly empty, so I was at my ease to think everything over, theoretically, if that had not been what I had done for the greater part of the night.

At the end of the day, there was not such an awful lot to be thought about: Sherlock's dream was over, it was finished. Sheridan would never be the child he had wished for. He would be worse than useless – mentally disabled, his father would come to find him a liability, and I was afraid of what he might say. But as far as I was concerned, that did not change anything. I would love Sheridan none the less for his deficiencies. On the contrary, a part of me exulted at the news, although I was ashamed to admit it to myself. I just could not help feeling that a yoke had been lifted off the shoulders of my son, that he would, within the scope of his possibilities, be allowed to lead a perfectly normal life.

Such were my feelings during the ride, but as soon as we had alighted and drew near home, my guts started to contract painfully. All of Sherlock's future visions had crumbled, a defeat beyond compensation. No doubt he would blame me, my genes, my family, whatever would serve. But what would he actually _do_, now I had failed him? Would he leave me for good? Would he watch out for a new companion? Oh Lord, if only he would not repudiate me. I loved him so.

The sight of the large carriage leaving our premises made a rupture in my anxious thoughts. Usually, Sherlock would use the wagonette, he had no ambitions to impress the plain people in the countryside.

I left the pram beneath the archway, wrapped Sheridan tighter into his kerchiefs and tapped on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened it, relief showing on her face when she beheld us.

„Oh, Mrs. Holmes! We were just discussing whether or not to inform the police you were missing! Pray, where have you been? Miss Fanny and I have been terrified to find you gone, and when you did not return for the night..."

„It is alright, Mrs. Hudson. I been to town an' missed the last bus. Sorry to 'ave frightened ya, I really should of sent a message. Please, go in and tell them I'm back."

I slipped past her to remove my damp coat and dirty galoshes. Sheridan had messed himself up with his own saliva, I needed a clean towel. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson took over when she returned from the study. Straightening my frock with both hands, I drew deep breath before rapping at the door briefly before I entered.

A lively fire was crackling in the fireplace, with Fanny next to it. She was sitting in Sherlock's deep chair, dangling her legs. Sherlock leaned against the mantlepiece, and silently smoked his pipe. I did not see them at once, my eyes fixing on my family first, but Mary and John Watson turned to me smilingly.

„Oh, Kitty!" Mary ejaculated, and Watson spread his arms to me.

„'ave a butcher's 'oo's come down from the Ci'y fer us!" Fanny chimed, but I had eyes only form my husband. He did not smile, nor say a word of welcome, he just stood there, reclined, encountering my gaze with an empty look.

„Well I – I'm sure I'm happy to see you 'ere", I sputtered, surrendering myself to the kisses and embraces of our surprise guests. „I had not expected – „

„Oh, it was a quite spontaneous agreement", Mary lilted, „we have had Mr. Holmes for dinner in London, and I thought: Why not go down with him to Sussex for the weekend and see how Kitty does? And John here was all for it."

"My dear child." Watson held me by the shoulders, beaming at me. "I am just so glad you have recovered. It's a blessing to see you so well!"

I had just opened my mouth to answer, when Fanny's question rang above the chatter, hard and unmerciful like church bells: "But where 'ave ya been all this time, auntie?"

Sherlock slowly raised his head, as though of a sudden he had come to life. Mary's and John's smile decreased for some degrees. I gulped.

"Sherlock? Could we – could we please 'ave a word in private? Now?"

Our guests showed a wonderful sense of the situation. "I haven't yet looked at little Sheridan!" Mary exclaimed; and: "Let's see if the little bounder has grown, shall we?" Watson proposed. They swiftly removed themselves from the room, going to join Mrs. Hudson next doors. Fanny trundled in their wake, her head turned so as to stare at us with the sullen, inexpressive curiosity of a child.

The door closed behind her with a strange peremptoriness. I gazed at the door, not out of obstinacy, but because I did not dare raise my eyes and look in the face of the man I was going to give the worst disappointment of his life.

He waited. He shuffled his feet. He tapped the stem of his pipe against the mantelpiece.

"I know what you're thinking!" I burst out suddenly.

"You do?" he retuned with the sweet maliciousness he favoured with me.

"You think I've done something very wrong, or very foolish at the least. But I don't think so! I think I was right in taking my son to the doctor, and it was wrong that I had to do so behind your back, when you were outta the house!"

"So that's where you've been." His knuckles turned white, gripping the pipe hard.

"That was very foolish indeed, and very thoughtless. You should not have left without

letting Mrs. Hudson know where you would go and when you would be back. It was

most regardless of you to put her into such a state of anxiety."

I bravely resisted the provocation to tell him he was the last man who ought to be

preaching regard for others, thus getting involved in a dispute without end. Instead, I

told him blankly: "Our child is unlike others. I saw it and you didn't. Why was that? You

are supposed to notice small signs, to interpret the information they communicate."

He uneasily tugged on his collar band. "Now, Kitty, I beg of you…a little delay in

development may certainly…"

"You could tell, same as me!" Suddenly, I was furious. Pointing at him with my index, I

accused him, my voice raised to drown out his protests. "You could tell he was unable to

support his head! You saw his slanted eyes, his spread toes, his palm furrows, didn't

you? You saw them, and you might have known their significance! You might have

known!"

"Enough!" He stepped quite close, towering over me, glowering down on me. To no avail,

though. Sherlock Holmes could no longer intimidate me. He had failed to do so ever

since I had had Sheridan.

"I will tolerate these outbursts of hysteria no longer. You ought to go to your room, and

re-join us when you are fit to do so."

I wasted no time telling him that it was over, that he could not command me. I inhaled

softly, bending my neck to face the floor again. "Sheridan is disabled, Sherlock. His brain

suffers from his alien condition. He will be as though he was five years old, always."

"What is that you tell me?" His whisper was dangerously soft. "Who dares tell such

unspeakable lies about my son?"

"A doctor in Litchfield, Maynard by name", I said, wearily. "He inspected the boy an'

found all the typical symptoms. 'e's a specialist in such cases, it appears."

He gave off a laugh, relieved and contemptuous. "A specialist in mongolism? And you do

not think it strange you should just happen to walk into a doctor, here in the wilderness,

who specializes exactly in what ailment your child is afflicted with? You are such a sorry

fool, Catherine. Don't we know such so-called specialists well enough? Give them a

patient and he is diagnosed with the exotic handicap which is the learned doctors

favourite hobby-horse. It is the same, always. I have a mind to expose him as the fraud

he is and wear him down in front of the entire neighbourhood."

Sadly, I shook my head. "Take him to other physicians. Ask Watson's opinion if

you will. It'll all come down to the same, in the end. I've been feeling it in my bones…all

these months…"

I felt a sob threatening and turned away. Covering my face with one hand, I shut the world out for a moment at least, before I returned to the reality that the only son I'd ever have was not simply not gifted, but, as the doctor had termed it so uninhibitedly, an idiot. He would never be able to work, to make friends, to marry and have children of his own. Instead, he would always be dependent on the love and care of his relatives.

Clenching my teeth, I made myself face the inevitable. It seemed a relief that at least Sherlock was not going to succumb to the extremity of some emotion. I felt I would not be fit to encounter his anger, or an outburst of the infinite disappointment that loomed at the bottom of those eyes, dark and enigmatical. No, outwardly at least, he appeared calm.

He put the pipe down on the mantle and slowly strode across the room, hand stroking his chin thoughtfully. "I see", he muttered, stopping short in front of the window, and walking back to the fireplace. "I see."

I felt my strength dwindling after the restless night and the excitement, and sat down on the chaiselongue. What did I care for his thoughts. I was tired.

Sherlock roamed his study a couple of times more before he ultimately settled in front of the fireplace. He put together his hands and rubbed them like a man who has found a satisfactory solution to his problem.

"Kitty", he said into the silence, "we are going to adopt."

I looked up at him through my teary eyes. "What did ya say?"

"We are going to adopt a child", he replied impatiently, "a clever child, with such gifts as are desired. You were quite right. It was foolish of me to try and bend nature to my purpose. I guess I have only myself to blame. Still, I refuse to be defeated. If I cannot produce a pupil for my intentions, perhaps it is wiser to choose. The country's orphanages are crammed with children who know no other home. We could pick a boy, quite young. It could be done according to certain criteria. You know that marked intelligence will express itself in much the same way as insanity."

I hesitated. "I'm not sure, Sherlock. Would that be quite fair to our son?"

He blinked. "Why, how do you mean?"

"Just thinking. With such a high-flyer in the house, might he not come to feel that you love him less because of his shortcomings?"

And as I looked at him, it was as if I looked into a mirror, the dawning understanding on two faces, a short glance into a world of the other that none of us could even rudimentally understand.

"You're not sending him away!" I whispered, my eyes widening without my will.

"My dear Kitty, to do anything else would be nonsensical. I know it will hurt you, but only for a short while. Only until you have your new son. It will be as though Sheridan had never lived. And in a…home, they'll be much more able to attend to his needs. You must see that it is so."

"Be silent", I breathed, feeling suffocation drawing near. "Be silent, or I'm gonna beat you."

"Catherine." His voice was soft, low-key, cajoling. "What can we do? To keep him would be too much of a strain on us."

"Not on me!" My lips trembled. Sheridan, sweet Sheridan, out there in Mrs. Hudson's arms! Maybe she was showing him to Mary now, with a grandmother's pride. Maybe he would suck on his small thumb, and Mary would break into her small delighted cooing sound.

"He would be better off in a home, surely. We don't have the experience…"

The trembling got worse. "'ave you ever seen one o' these 'homes' from the inside?"

"I'm afraid you are under false impressions as concerns that. They're much modernized these days. No comparison to the asylums of the past."

"You seem pretty eager to be rid of my son." I gnashed my teeth. Never in our eighteen months of marriage had I loathed him so much. "I guess you'd be rid of me too? Why take the trouble of adoption, pray? You can easily get another silly little trollop to do your bidding."

"No." He took on an air of grave dignity. "No, I would have no other than you."

"And why not, may I ask? I am nothing but your brood mare, ain't I?"

"Please, now. You need rest my dear…"

"There's no rest fer me where you are near."

"Kitty…my love…"

"Don't call me that, Mr. 'olmes." I rose quickly, and he seemed to retreat a little. "Don't you dare call me that."

And with a parting glance of pure, unmixed hatred, I stormed out of his study.

oooOOOooo

The world drifted on by below my bedroom window. But the world such as it was, could go to the blazes for all that I cared. It did nothing but perpetually turn the tables on me, anyway.

I could think about nothing but Sheridan, and myself. What would become of us now? We could go away of course; I would always be welcome at Jonathan's place in Ireland. It might not be easy; however, Sherlock had seemed very determined to shut his unsatisfactory son away from the world. It gave me a frisson to think of the way he had referred to the asylums of the past. Maybe I would have to pretend acquiescence, and abscond when he did not reckon on it. This way or another, we could not stay.

I did not know precisely whether one hour had passed, or two, or three, when a tentative knocking on the door aroused me from my pondering. I stiffened into alertness, but it was Mary's head which showed in the increasing aperture. The grievous expression on her face as she hesitantly entered told its own story.

"You've 'eard?" I asked, my voice hoarse from extended disuse.

She stood still, hand folded across her skirt, and nodded. "John has been talking to him."

I returned my gaze to the window. "He longed for this chile so much."

"I know." Her voice was thick, and, I realized with surprise, rife with anguish. Was she going to tell me Sherlock was right, that I had to take my motherly feelings back and respect his decision? Anything seemed possible on this most nightmarish of days.

"You don't even guess how much. Kitty, I have to tell you something."

She moved closer, and I sensed her smell, her warmth, her beating heart. No, Mary would never betray me. She had her faults, but I instinctively knew she was on my side.

"Let me warn you. It may be a shock and it is sure to be a sore disappointment, and yet - "

I shrugged my shoulders. "I would expect nothing but disappointment now. Please, go on."

She was kneading her hands by now. With an unforeseen pang of inner hurt, I remembered having seen her like this before, the day at _Buzzard's Café_ when she had disclosed to me the truth about the Ripper case, and Sherlock's decisions concerning my safety.

"Kitty, have you but _any _idea of what was going on in this house on the day of Sheridan's birth? Do you have cognizance of the discussion that took place between our husbands?"

"Then I will let you know. I have lost on this day the last of my respect for Mr. Holmes, and don't feel any obligation to draw the veil of silence over what I regard as a criminal act of putting you into danger." She drew deep breath. "You seem to be ignorant of the stake the operation performed on you constituted. There would have been a fairly safe way of ending the whole thing. It is gruesome to relate, truly, but the child might have been killed and extracted, thus guaranteeing your survival. However, Mr. Holmes made John try the cesarean, full well aware he had never conducted it before. I know John was all against it, but he accepted his friend's decision against his better judgement. It was a mere coincidence you survived. His choice made it unmistakably clear your husband preferred the safe birth of his only son to the life of his wife. His act was an utterly selfish one. I was so upset I ran away, leaving you to the men's mercy."

The indifferent world outside began to swim before my eyes, and I closed them, pressed by the leaden weight of my lids. All thought of Sheridan was gone for the moment, and I experienced a mighty surge of passionate, egoistic, blatant heartache. The pictures in my mind quickly changed, like the colourful illusions of a cinematographic performance.

Holmes, smiling at me, drawing pictures into the gravel with his walking stick as by the by he asked me to marry him. Myself, sitting by his bedside and torturing him with _Sense and Sensibility _when he lay disarmed in fever. Our walk along the beach at Brighton, beneath stars like liquid crystal. Both of us, fighting through the smoke-filled cellar and climbing the crates up to the window, my hand firmly in his always. He kneeling behind me, my chest and shoulders locked in his frantic arms, and our bodies twining in the desperate struggle for new life.

I had always known Sherlock did not feel for me as I did for him. I knew he was incapable of it. Still I had believed, hoped, in a backroom of my soul; that he loved me, loved me just as much as he could love anyone at all. I had been deceived. His paramount love belonged, as ever, to his own self.

Mary approached one more step, her mouth opened to make a suggestion, her hand raised over my head to offer solace. I fended off both, waving my arm impetuously. "I – I am sorry Mary, I'd like to be alone now. Thanks…thank you, fer being candid with me."

And she went away, maybe offended, maybe sympathetically, I do not know. I'm on my own now. Perhaps I always was. It doesn't matter. I have to find out where I belong, who I am. The sooner I find out, the better for me and Sheridan. Probably we shall go back to Ireland. It's where I belong, after all.

All I know is, I need some fresh air to get my head clear and make plans. The past months have been quite an ordeal, pampering the baby, I have hardly had the time to do anything for my own benefit, like taking the walk. Where was that I went to in spring….a beautiful place up the coastal path, with the seagull's nest in between the spiky rocks. Their young will have left it by this time, but maybe they are rearing new fledglings. I want to see them fly, simple and carefree, and then I shall know what to do.

_Thus ends the diary of Catherine Holmes. The remainder of the story will be narrated by Dr. J.H. Watson, M.D._


	98. Chapter 98

Epilogue

The wind was fresh on the Sussex downs, and now winter was not far, the ground was hard, too hard almost for Jack Catherick to dig his spade into. He let go off it to clasp his hands and warm them with his breath.

"Cold, ey?" Martin, his sole companion, grinned underneath his face wrapper. "Won't be much longer now we can carry on with the business."

"What's it you suggest? Store them until summer?"

Catherick picked up his spade again, shoveling heavy earth over his shoulder as though he would be paid a fortune for it instead of a pittance.

They worked in silence for a while until the grave was deep enough. Helping each other out of the ditch, they puffed, and made to brush down the legs of their trousers.

"Have a fag?"

"Aye, mate."

Martin reached into the depth of his lunch box, rummaging for the smokes.

"Who else is there? Who's next, Jack?"

Catherick accepted his cigarette with a grunt, and lit it in the shelter of his crooked hand, against the wind.

"It's that woman Abe Flynn fished out of the sea. Over there." He indicated a corner of the churchyard, underneath a lilac bush and thus a little less exposed to the weather.

The men finished their break in the consequent monosyllabism of physical workers. It was only when they set to their task in the chosen spot of God's acre that the younger of the two picked up the conversation.

"What exactly happened to her, Jack?"

"Why'd you ask me that, boy? All aif heard is from old Flynn, who was out in his dogger when she fell off the cliff. Says he heard her cry and as he turned round he saw her fall. Recovered her near the coast he did, at his own risk, but of course she was dead as mutton."

"Wonder what she was doing up there."

Martin shoved his cap to the back of his head, scratching his curly forehead.

"Why, what's it to you? Who has she even been? A stranger."

"Aye. Belonged to the people of the cottage."

"What cottage?"

"The one near the honey farm. Out on the downs. I've seen her once or twice, when she was out with her wee one. Fine looking woman, she was."

"Was she."

They fell silent again, throwing clumps of soil out of the stranger woman's grave. After a while, Jack Catherick started whistling the "Old Brigade".

oooOOOooo

I will do an equal favour to you and me if I do not go into the details of the weeks that followed Kitty's death. Let me just say they passed by at the same pace as other weeks, though it may have seemed different to those who lived through them.

The past is for the dead, and the present for the living. I have made it my motto to live accordantly, and would welcome it if my best friend would follow the set example. Of course, we are not the same. He is convinced her death was intentional. I heard him tell the coroner so, when he came to interrogate us.

I told him it was my persuasion she has had an accident, the miserable situation she found herself in notwithstanding. Of course we can never know for certain. Still, I am convinced of her misadventure as if I had accompanied her, climbed with her on the cliff, seen her foot slip; heard the cry reported to us by the old local fisherman. Kitty was not one to do a foolish thing; she loved life too much for that. I do not say so to diminish the guilt Holmes may have brought upon himself during her lifetime. I knew Kitty Winter.

We have returned to London because there is nothing we could do for him, or Sheridan. All our attempts to dissuade him from his scheme to put the child into the care of a special orphanage have been unsuccessful. I can only guess at the feeling of failure that may have beset him every time he looked at his son. However, it was unnecessary to hide him from the world. We could have taken him, or he could have been made the charge of Kitty's family. But at the end of the day, it is for his father to say.

He is in a strange condition. He has sent the girl away. Her similarity to Catherine has proven too much for him, and it will become worse as she grows up. Fanny cried on departure, she did not want to go back to her mother's. Maybe, after all, it would have been the place for Kitty. She was Irish down to her bones, had she never known Holmes, perhaps it might have been her way to happiness. Not so for Fanny. Born and raised in the downtown molech of Limehouse, she is English to a degree her aunt never has accomplished. Maybe she will never be at home in Kerry.

I have thought much about her since she has left. I even went so far as to secretly post a letter to Kitty's brother, Joe Winter, to ask if he could consider the possibility of Fanny living in London, with us. I think Mary would like that.

_**This story is dedicated to Kit Thompson and Jeremy Brett, the Kitty and Holmes of my imagination.**_

oooOOOooo

**Hi everyone! **

**So, that has been it. My first completed novel-length piece of writing. It has taken three years for me to write and for you to read.**

**I am in two minds about the end. Happy, because it turned out the way I wanted, and sad, obviously, because I can write it no longer. Thank you, my dear faithful readers, for your constant encouragement and feedback. It is essential to every writer, I think, to get some sort of response to his work. It would never have been finished without your input and support.**

**Hopefully all of you enjoyed the story. I know that I did. The characters so much better than any I could have invented. I loved to purloin them! **

**:-D Lots and lots and lots of love and good bye, your deeply obliged**

**Mrs. Forsyte**


End file.
